Abandoned
by Chezzles.ze.Great
Summary: Goren's ability to deliver the criminal had never been questioned until he succumbed to the mightiest of human vices and fell in love in the middle of a case...
1. Denial

"This place opened over four years ago and I've never even been inside. I hear it's one of the better places to get a pint and hear some good music." A short woman with shoulder-length blondish hair commented to her companion. She took a sip out of a pilsner glass and tapped her foot. "Of course, I've never really liked the club scene. This place is all right, though."

Her companion seemed to appreciate the background chatter she provided, but never looked out of the leather portfolio he had with him. He was reading intently, his eyebrows raised so high theynearlymet in the middle of his forehead.

"What do you make of the band?"

"I wonder why they aren't playing contemporary." The man replied; his woman friend seemed surprised he'd been listening at all, let alone had been able to come up with an acceptable response.

"This isn't exactly a hopping club. It is just a bar."

The man finally raised his eyes out of the leather binder. "Look at the lead singer, Alex."

The woman swiveled in her chair, sipping more beer. "So?"

"Tattoo. Hair." The man was again immersed in his readings. He didn't even glance up to make sure what he'd seen already was correct. "The top is probably vintage."

Alex seemed amused. "Sounds like you're accusing her of being a hippie."

"She could do worse." He replied, and turned the page over, skimming the back. "She's wearing a bra."

"Oh, so she's not a hundred percent hippie, right?"

At last he turned and looked back up at her. With an uncharacteristically chauvinistic smile, he replied, "It's a minimizing apparatus. She's self-conscious about her chesty-ness."

"Or maybe aware how no one in this town takes you seriously when you've got a C cup or bigger and you want to be more than a bra model."

Seemingly disheartened by his friend's lack of interest in his friendly fun, the man began reading again.

"But what do you make of the music, Bobby?"

"I—"

"And don't say you wonder about something else or I will tell her you want her phone number and bra size."

The man shut his mouth. He was slouched over the little table, balanced perfectly on his stool, his long legs curled on the bottom rung of the seat. They jiggled as he anxiously picked through the paperwork. The suit he was wearing was casually falling apart. His suit jacket already spread out in the spare stool, he had loosened his tie and undone a few buttons. Now he undid his sleeves and rolled them up, also taking his shirt out of his pants. He took a deep breath and tangled his fingers into his hair, a pencil poised in his left hand.

"Bobby!" Alex admonished, slapping her hand across the paragraph he was reading. "You have all night to read that! We don't start until morning!"

"The facts already don't line up!"

"That's why we have the case, or the foot patrolman would have collared him already." Alex reached over and flicked his nose grumpily. "Now, stop evading my question!"

"The music is nice." Bobby replied in a pouting sort of tone, tucking his papers and pencils away meticulously. "The bass drum is turned up too loud, but I think she needs it. Sometimes she gets a little off rhythm."

The blonde haired woman, tossing her head back, let out a sigh which seemed to sum up her personality in two seconds. She was a quick-witted, no-nonsense, fun-loving hard-ass. Full of contradictions and analytical thought processes, she was the perfect balance for the introverted charmer she was partnered with. As short as she was, she measured up in attitude with him as well.

Her partner had a rounder face than she did, and constantly looked deep in though, which had carved a few hard lines onto his eyes and his forehead. A sprinkle of silvery gray hair was just starting to turn on his temples and across the front of his hair. He was enormous, and no longer in his peak physical condition, but certainly healthy for his size. He seemed anxious a lot, and distracted. Always thinking, and usually ready to throw back some quick-witted reply.

He continued to read his paperwork, waiting for Eames to snarl at him again.

"I'm sure she'll be happy the armchair critic is picking her apart from the back of smoky bar." Alex sighed, smiling nonetheless. Bobby may have been the most irritating cop in the Major Case Squad, but he was also the most brilliant. Alex had thought for a long time he was simply _one_ of the best, but now she knew he was the best. Nothing unraveled him, nothing scared him; nothing even riled him up. She's seen him become unhinged a handful of times in all the years they'd worked together, and once he'd explained the reasons behind such an explosion, it became clear the situation had to be _just so _for him to fly off the handle like that. Usually it had something to do with his mother, who was staying up at Carmel Ridge with a mental disorder, or some know-it-all he couldn't get his superb interrogation skills wrapped around.

She caught him sneaking peaks at the case-file through the cracks of his still-open portfolio. Snatching the leather binder from him, she zipped it and stuffed it into a tote bag she'd brought in. Smiling smugly now, she raised her beer glass and waited.

"Detective Eames," he acknowledged, lifting his glass of beer in return.

"Detective Goren. To five days of hard work." They clinked glasses and drank. The band on stage started going again, and this time Alex noticed Bobby had sat up a little straighter in his chair. The sleeves, which were pulled back, revealed his entire forearm right down to his enormous hands. Still hunched in his chair, Bobby looked average sized. He craned his neck to see the stage better, and straightened. Alex marveled as he grew to his usual six foot four frame and held himself still.

The woman singing lead for the band onstage had thrown her head back to sing some amazingly grating note from a Janis Joplin hit. Alex felt something on the table and looked beneath it. Bobby had uncurled his legs and was resting his foot against the post in the middle of the tiny table they shared. He was tapping his foot.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"She really puts on a show." He squinted and tilted his head. "Seems…confident, to say the least. She's been doing this a while."

"I'm sure she has." Alex took another sip, now half done with her beer. Bobby had taken one drink for their toast.

"I wonder if she has a day-job."

"Shouldn't you wonder her name and phone number first?" Alex quipped, pleased when Bobby shrank back into a slouch and turned, his eyes slightly squinted at her.

"What?" She asked innocently, tilting her head, a smile starting to cross her face. "Or have you forgotten how to flirt?"

"Forgotten?" Bobby flashed her a smile. "More like never got it right. They get creeped out easily."

"She wouldn't be." Alex made her own assessment of the woman, who ended her song with a passionate, vibrato-filled note. As she hopped the stage and shook a few hands, she made her way to the bar. Bobby's eyes followed her. He seemed overly intrigued, and the thought struck Alex she was seeing Bobby physically attracted to someone for the first time. She knew he appreciated a beautiful woman when he saw one, but she'd never seen him actively engaged in watching anyone with that sort of eye.

"Talk to her." She urged.

"What do you suppose an Orgasm tastes like?" Bobby then asked, and she realized he'd been reading the drink list the past few seconds, not staring at the girl as intently as Alex had thought.

"Jesus, Bobby, you need some, don't you?"

He sent her a wicked funny sneer, pretending he found her statement funny and infuriating when really he was just covering his ass.

"Ethnicity?"

"English, or some other western European country."

"Age?"

"Way too young." Bobby replied and shifted uncomfortably. "This isn't my forte, Eames. Lay off."

She raised her eyebrows. "If someone just showed you the way, poor thing—"

"Eames." His tone warned her he wasn't playing anymore. He bent to grab his portfolio.

"If you touch that thing one more time, I'll take it home and you won't read the files until tomorrow morning." She watched his hand shrink away. He squirmed in his seat again, and then picked up the drink list. "I'm going to try an Orgasm."

"Nice to hear you haven't lost your adventurous side." She said flatly and jabbed him with her foot as he stood and raised himself up to his full height. "Bring me a Fuzzy Navel."

He walked across the twenty or so feet between their table and the bar. The last few steps he'd been staring at the drink list again, and Alex smiled when he half-stumbled but gracefully skittered to a halt beside the woman from the stage. He seemed surprised he'd landed beside her, and threw a glance back at his table. Alex raised her glass and winked, pleased he was so easy-going tonight. He sent her a fresh squint and turned to eye the list again.

The bartender finally noticed the two of them waiting and popped over.

"Hey, Jenny!" He reached through the cups and glasses to shake her hand. "What can I get you?"

She peered at Bobby's drink list. "Jack Daniels for the boys, and I'll have a rum and Coke." She popped her tongue against her teeth. "But take your time. They're cleaning up. I don't feel like helping."

He laughed and then faced Bobby. "Well, how about you, then?"

"What's in the Orgasm?" He asked, tilting his head innocently. "Or shouldn't I know?"

"Mint Schnapps' and Bailey's Irish Cream." The girl replied and the bartender nodded. "That's how they make it here, anyway." She amended, eyeing the tall detective up and down.

Bobby wrinkled his nose and waved his hand distracted. "I can't do that. Let's see…"

"A selective shopper." The girl said softly, almost teasingly, but politely enough Bobby could have mistaken it for just an observation. He then realized he wasn't immediately certain the inflection she was purposefully using, and jerked his eyes out of the list, meeting hers.

"I never was really big on mixed drinks." He said in his own defense.

"You seem like a Man of the Moment." She nodded her head and smiled stealthily, as if she'd said something funny, and then his eyes fell to the list. It was a drink listed; he felt himself blushing.

"You game, buddy?" The bartender seemed amused as well.

"Yeah." He didn't bother asking what was in it—but, he firmly told himself, he wasn't doing this solely because he trusted the girl's judgment.

"So, shots for the little lady with a rum and Coke, and a Man of the Moment for our man of the moment here?" The bartender moved to make the drinks.

"And a Fuzzy Navel." Bobby jabbed a finger over his shoulder. "She—"

The woman, her smile widening, rested her elbow on the bar-top. "She should have told you what was in an Orgasm before she let you up here to ask."

"I think she enjoys seeing me make a fool of myself." Bobby replied while fishing in his pockets for money. The bartender had already left to prepare the drinks, but he liked to be ready.

"Is she your partner?" She tilted her head in the direction of Alex and waited while Bobby tried to dissect her comment. "You are a cop, aren't you?"

He was impressed, but tried not to relay information like that. "Yeah. Yeah on both assumptions."

Her pleased smile was pleasant, and Bobby found himself smiling back.

"How could you tell?" He asked, checking to make sure he'd left his gun with Alex and his badge wasn't visible.

She indicated his body with a shrug of her shoulder and toss of her eyes. "You seem very authoritative, but not quite so pushy. Probably a profiler—no…" Her eyes darkened. "Detective, or Officer?"

"Detective." He said, still trying to figure her out in return.

He was about to ask her a question when the bartender returned with her shots prepared, still working on the other bits of the puzzle. "Hey, Jenny, no Red Hot Lover tonight?"

"Naw, I'm savin' my pennies up for a new apartment." She smiled. "Thanks, though."

Bobby found himself realizing he was probably exactly a foot taller than the woman, and slouched his shoulders a little.

"That's another drink." She informed her new friend in a gregarious voice.

He found himself smiling again, and then felt the bartender return with two mixed drinks. "Hey, buddy?"

He turned and paid the man, wondering if he had exact change. Meanwhile the woman studied him. He was methodical and meticulous, but definitely more smart than he was socially challenged. She guessed he resembled a serial killer in some ways and had social problems and could be quite charming when he wanted to be, but at the same time the loud interior of the bar seemed to wear on him, and he looked a little scruffy and over-worked.

"You sang wonderfully tonight." Bobby juggled the drinks, preparing to leave but reluctant to do so without the final word.

"Thanks," her sincere smile touched her eyes, and he felt half his mouth turn up in an actual grin.

"Well—"

"What's your name, Detective?"

"Bobby." He blinked, nearly kicking himself. "Goren." He added, fumbling. It was too late to make it suave like James Bond now—not that he'd have ever tried something like that.

She put her hand on his shoulder. "I'm Jenny Cooper."

"It was pleasure hearing your voice all night." He felt a twinge of excitement race through him; he'd actually said something which could be taken in two directions.

She slanted her eyes at him, turning to get her drinks. "Likewise, though I'd like to hear it more sometime. Will you come back?"

"I don't see a reason why I wouldn't."

"Good." She gathered up the drinks expertly, sending him a confidently aware look. "I know I'm safe, then." And then she walked away, having stolen his last word. In utter awe, Bobby stumble-walked his way back to Alex.

She had drained her beer and his, and looked as if she'd been drinking coffee. Bobby sometimes wondered how a woman her size could handle so much alcohol, but figured it took some tolerance and determination, and filed the information in the part of his brain labeled, "curious facts."

"What did the lovely thing have to say?" Alex asked casually, digging through her tote for Bobby's portfolio. She intended to reward him for information.

"She told me what was in an Orgasm, and I ended up getting a Man of the Moment." He hefted one of his hands. "I have no clue which is which."

Alex raised her eyebrows. "Really?"

"Well," he switched on his brain, "yours has peach in it." He sniffed one of the glasses and handed it to her. "Here."

Seemingly disappointed, Alex clutched the leather portfolio to her lap. "Did you at least catch her name, you oaf?"

Again his shoulders rounded—she wondered what had sparked him to be so self-conscious about his height.

"Talk to me, sweetie." She nudged him with her elbow.

One of his lesser smiles crossed his eyes and touched nothing else, almost a whisper of amusement, and nothing more. He squirmed again, and Alex found it unnerving how easy it was to push his buttons over this girl.

"I didn't..." He started to lie. "I mean, I couldn't…quite hear her."

"And?"

"Alex—"

"Spit it out, Bobby." She pushed the portfolio onto his lap somewhat. "And I'll let you read your case tonight."

He snatched the binder away, pouting his lips expertly, but before he unzipped the leather case to begin immersing himself in the evidence again, he spat out, "She's a D cup."

It was nearly two in the morning, but Bobby Goren hadn't shut his eyes with the rare exceptions of the moments he'd blink or cover his face to think better. He'd begun pacing, and wondered how many phone calls he could make at this hour before Deakins caught wind he was sleuthing around already.

The case wasn't so cut-and-dry, but those were the best kinds of cases, to Bobby. A man had been found with severe facial lacerations. His head was stuck in a toilet in a public bathroom near Central Park, clogging the pipes with his long hair. On his body they'd found a driver's license which had a picture of a long-haired individual with a stubbly face and a beautiful, alive smile. Phone calls had been made. The family of the man had been called, but they had only reported him missing four hours before the phone call had been made to inform them of his death. He'd been in the stall, knelt before it as if puking up a night of drinking, for no less than two days. The coroner had had a hard time dredging the puffy head out of the pipes without destroying evidence. Bobby found himself pondering why the body hadn't been discovered earlier. _You've been in a public bathroom, Goren. You know why they all saw the poor idiot kneeling into the toilet and didn't ask any questions._ He mused to himself.

The next door neighbor had seen the deceased sixteen hours before they had discovered the body, and officers were a hundred percent certain he'd been murdered and hadn't committed suicide because of marks on his wrists indicating he'd been tied up. It seemed he'd been tied up, maybe even transported. Bobby's first stop was the station for a game-plan to corroborate with Deakins, then he and Eames could begin interviewing until they could view the autopsy findings.

Bobby's left elbow, tucked in his right hand, supported his left hand, which was covering his mouth just barely.

His cell phone rang. Without thinking, he took a gulp of his lukewarm coffee and answered. "Goren."

"Get some sleep." Came Alex's tired voice. "I need your fresh head tomorrow."

"Okay, I will soon, I promise." He sat and felt the coffee start to wear off. "I think we have a planted body, Alex."

"Sounds promising. Save the rest for tomorrow." Her voice grew softer. "I'm glad we went out tonight, Bobby. Sometimes I worry you have no social life."

A sharp sting went through his chest. "Yeah, well…"

"I feel I must be blunt."

"G'night, Alex." He hung up and relaxed into an armchair, looking around the medium-sized apartment. It was nice, and perfect for his salary. He had enough money for new suits now and then, and enough money for coffee, the occasional dinner for himself and Eames, and a budget for legal paper to stock in his portfolio for when he took notes.

He fell asleep sitting upright, his chin resting on his chest. He filled the entire armchair, and knew if Alex were to stop on her way to the station, she would laugh upon finding him curled up like this. Still, he slept, papers spread around him, and felt nearly complete.

Eames looked over her desk at Goren, who had been sitting there in total silence, staring at the wall without blinking. She watched his face a few moments, waiting for him to blink. It was a few minutes—Eames blinked exactly fourteen times and Goren blinked not one time. He finally seemed to notice he had become a robot and jerked his eyes off the wall. They were red, irritated, and half-lidded. Slight bags rested under them, and he gave her a steely look. Still he didn't blink.

"Solve the case yet?"

"There's another DB. SVU was called in on it because it looks like the guy was raped." Goren made a strange face and held up two hands. "Some nobody with an Armani suit found beaten to death. His face was all torn up and it looked like he'd rubbed it off with a cheese grater." He picked up the photo of the poor soul's face. "We now have two victims on two sides of town without faces but found with ID."

"Should I run names against DMV photos?" Eames caught onto his idea.

"They found a fingernail with the deadbeat. In the guy's hair. Possibly our killer's." Goren made a horrible face. "I'd hate to have to call this into SVU; God knows they'd hate to have Major Case move in and steal the collar."

"It may be our jurisdiction."

"Not if that guy was raped."

"Maybe the killer is trying to divide the agencies." Eames suggested, tapping her pen against the desk she was seated behind. "Maybe he knows we'll have a pissing contest over this and he's having a grand old time making confetti out of men's faces."

"I think he'll move north next, then to the south." Goren stood and began to pace. "He probably thinks he's really methodical. He certainly hasn't thought of everything. If we run the DMV license number, the fingerprints, the DNA…we'll figure him out. He might have left a fingernail on the body." A slight smile, almost sadistic, spread over his face. "It's actually…probably, anyway…a woman."

Eames made a face. "If this is a serial killer, Goren, you know statistically the odds are against that."

"One murder to cover up another murder, to cover up another, to cover up another." Goren's lips thinned. "And once she got a taste of blood, her thoughts of men plummeted…"

"Never fear, then. Bobby Goren, flirting machine, is going to trick her somehow."

"No, if we brought her in, we'd have to play into her hatred and get her to slip up." Goren suddenly realized what inference she'd made—his brain had been moving along too fast at first. "And I resent that, Eames."

"Resent the compliment? You would, you oaf."

"I was not a flirting machine. We talked because it would have been socially awkward not to."

Eames smiled. "And you noticed her bra size during the chat why?"

Goren was now acutely aware of Captain Deakins staring at them, wanting to be unobtrusive to hear Goren's quick-witted response. He stumbled at first, but all this happened in hundredths of seconds and he finally thought of a suitable response.

"I'm nearly a foot taller—she was begging for _someone_ to look down her top."

"Oaf." Eames repeated and began to load up on paperwork to sort so they could start cracking down on Goren's suspicion.

"Who are we talking about?" Deakins took a comfortable seat on the corner of Goren's desk. "And why?"

In his own defense, Goren opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by Eames, who pretended only to be somewhat interested while she typed furiously at her keyboard, their victims' scanned driver's license before her. She was entering his digits.

"We went into that bar on Fifth and Hagerty. There was a live band playing some classic tunes. Goren here found the lead singer interesting and talked to her while ordering a drink." She slapped the enter button. "We had a grand old time discussing what kind of bra she was wearing and whether or not she was a hippie."

"First of all, she is a hippie." Goren said hotly. "I already explained it to you. And second of all, you baited me into that whole discussion—"

Eames looked pleased she'd successfully baited him yet again while Deakins' face spread into an ironic smile. "Jenny Cooper?"

Goren stopped talking abruptly.

Eames squealed. "So you _do_ know her name! Wait till I tell Bronson!"

The new recruit, a mousy little rookie, had taken a sort of hero-worship to the duo and often times lingered around their desks. Eames delighted in telling him horrible little lies about Goren to have them spread around and keep the workplace interesting. Goren delighted in avoiding Bronson altogether.

"Tell me what?" The brown-haired man with the small, square-framed glasses paused, holding two cups of coffee tightly.

"Goren was hitting on my cousin's lead singer." Deakins said in a pleasant voice.

Disbelief covered Goren's face; he bent for his portfolio, and after pocketing his cell phone, gathered his coat, and walked towards the door.

"Damnit," Eames jumped up, picking up her paperwork. "Bronson, print this stuff, would you?" She chased after Goren with a roll of her eyes.

His dark, intense eyes were focused grimly ahead of him, never wavering. His stumbling-walk was clearly a result of his intense thought processes all the time. He nearly bumped over people, but when pedestrians saw his long coat and wide shoulders, they cleared the way for him. Now, with Eames chasing after him, they crossed the streets to get away.

"Goren! Goren!" She sighed, noticing he was ignoring her. "Bobby!"

He turned around, a sweet smile playing across his lips. "Yes, Alexandra?"

She slapped his arm. "You're a coward, you know that?" She panted, catching her breath, frowning. "We were just teasing. Does it bother you _that_ much?"

"We're at work now, Eames." He stressed the sound of her last name, letting her hear how professional he was trying to be. "I don't mind getting teased a little after hours—I do it too. At work? Different story." He waved his arm towards the station haphazardly, nearly knocking a paperboy into a utility pole. "They already think I'm crazy in there."

"Nobody thinks you're _crazy._" Eames rolled her eyes again and started walking towards the address on the driver's license of their victim. "They know you're quirky and you have to do things your way. That's never been a crime, as far as they can tell. We've got one of the best solve-rates in the state, for Christ's sake!"

"SVU is on the way. Let's stop in and check with them for the license on their victim." Goren tapped his portfolio against his leg and uneasily realized they'd be walking past the bar they'd been in the night before.

Eames noticed the look of unease, so uncharacteristic, cross his face. She smiled weakly. "I won't say another word."

"Thank you." Goren gritted his teeth against the remark he would have liked to have thrown back, and forced the blood back from his cheeks before she noticed it. If she did notice, she didn't say anything.


	2. Transference

_Author's Note: _Guess what? I forgot a disclaimer! Dick Wolf owns the show, the characters are mostly borrowed, except for a few exceptions (Bronson, Jenny, and the crazy Whittaker family...). Also, "Oh! Darling" isa Beatles song. Give it a listen. Then read. Or vice versa.

Inside the SVU station, Detectives Munch and Tutuola sat some twelve feet from a desk where a woman with short brown hair was hunched over a mound of paperwork, blowing her bangs out of her face every few seconds. One at a time, they began throwing crumpled wads of paper at the side of her desk, rejoicing when it ricocheted off and fell into the waste basket she'd nestled to the side. A passing detective snatched Munch's clear air-ball mid-transit.

"Hey you airheads. Get to work. Cragen's already all over us about this DB." He sat down and ran his fingers over his face. "So he had secret sodomy parties, but he wasn't raped, as far as the ME can tell, Liv."

"I give us half an hour before Major Case comes to squirrel away our case."

"I give us three seconds." Munch said in a dreary tone, looking out the window. "The giant is here. Remember him, Liv? He—"

"I remember, John." She tossed him a dirty stare. "And I'm a grown woman. I don't need to sneak off to hide or anything."

Munch raised his eyebrows. "Why, no one suggested such a thing, Miss Benson!"

She started to rise up a little to intimidate further, but then Captain Cragen entered the room, his grim face suddenly severe as well as unwelcome. "Major Case is here about the DB in the studio."

Fin Tutuola rolled his eyes and tossed another paper ball, scoring a point. "Just what we need."

Alex Eames and Bobby Goren took a moment to arrange paperwork and evidence to help with SVU if need be. Alex steeled herself for the inevitable clash while Goren, suddenly chipper, took the lead, and entered just a few steps ahead of her. A psychopath, after injuring the good Doctor George Huang, had put a snag in the investigation. Goren, just passing through looking for information on a former pedophile, had been snared. He'd cracked the man in what felt like seconds, giving them a full confession and the graves of several unknown victims. On his way out, he noticed Olivia Benson giving her all to Elliot Stabler, her partner, about how he was staying with her that night because he was half-drunk and that was no way to go home to a wife and family. Why he was half-drunk was all a mystery, but Goren didn't find it that intriguing—at least not as intriguing as his partner's heated debate with him.

She had abandonment issues, but she was headstrong. Goren had latched onto her fanatical attachment to Stabler and her concern for his family. She was more of a man's lady and less of a lady's lady, and Goren drew a weak line. It shaded in when Stabler rolled his eyes. This evidently had happened before.

So, he'd offered some calm advice. He'd told Detective Benson he didn't think Stabler was going to be a terrible parent like her mother had been to her because of her alcohol addiction. And Benson, after first staring as if caught doing something bad in the boys' locker room, turned red and stormed at him, her fists raised. It was the first time an adult had called Goren a "freak" in mixed company.

Presently Goren stood, smiling happily at the group, trying not to look arrogant. "Good morning, detectives."

"You're here for our case?"

Eames seemed delighted. "Didn't pan out to be a rape?"

"Nope." Stabler flashed her the file. "Just a closet homosexual."

"Well, you don't have to be a homosexual to partake in anal sex, even if he was male." Goren inhaled through his nose, examining the first page of the file Stabler had handed Eames from over her shoulder. He was so tall she didn't seem to notice him looming. She started to close the file and Goren snatched it away, excommunicating himself from the group while he paced and read the new information.

"Look, the last thing we wanted was to steal this from you. It's our suspicion, however, that the our dead bodies have a common killer and that killer tried to cover her tracks by switching driver's licenses and identification photos." Eames tried to be polite, diverting attention away from Goren, who seemed to have forgotten he wasn't in their station and was muttering to himself and pacing around in the nearest corner.

"Hold on, you think the killer was a woman?" Stabler's eyebrows lifted. "Where'd that kooky idea come from?"

"Where else?" Munch interjected, tilting his head towards "the giant."

"I'm not entirely sure why he thinks it was a woman, but he's pretty certain." Eames shrugged and focused her eyes on her partner. "Goren, have you drowned in there yet?"

He held up the scanned license they'd found on the body. "The killer hid this body. Wanted it to be found after the one in the bathroom, but…people ignored the one in the public bathroom. It…didn't seem out of place because it was so public. Besides, this guy is living in a garbage pit down by the shelters on Broadway. How come he's wearing an Armani?"

Stabler, annoyed with not having noticed this before they'd waited for the ME's verdict to come back, clenched his fists beneath his desk.

Goren's eyes never left the paper he was reading. He waved the other sheet at Eames, and once she'd taken it, he began talking again. "We'll need toxicology reports on both of these. Our guy is clean…clean as clean gets. Dirty looking, clean as new morning." He blinked finally, soothing his irritated eyes. "Yours wears an Armani and has two prior possession with intent to sell charges with heroin. Something doesn't match up."

"You'll have to get DNA, won't you? Or fingerprints? Our guy has no face."

"Neither does ours. Opposite sides of the city?" Goren frowned a little. "She wanted them to be found on different days in different places and for different reasons. She's a rare killer, Eames. Doesn't want to get caught. Of course, that just strengthens the idea it was a cover-up to another murder, doesn't it, Eames?"

"Sometimes I hate you, Bobby." Eames said quietly, and knew the others were looking for any excuse to gang up on the weaker one. Goren, at his height and with his quirky confidence, was no target. She felt the eyes of critics on her.

"No, don't be mad." He waved his arm at her, trying to scold her for taking his distraction as sarcasm. "I just—"

"You've thought this one through, why wait for me?" She started to storm off. "You certainly aren't talking. Not since I called you on that girl in the bar." She noticed his shoulders round and knew she had struck a spot. She wasn't sure if he had slouched because he was disappointed, or apprehensive. His face hadn't changed. "Talk to me or I talk for both of us, Goren."

"I'm telling you as I come to it." He tilted his head. "We've got the file. Let's go."

Realizing how close she'd come to becoming a jealous, scorned partner, Eames flushed and slapped Goren's shoulder, directing him towards the door. She winked at Benson, as if letting her know she'd done it for her, and then scurried after Goren's extra-long strides.

"If you tell one more person about that girl in the bar—"

"How about you stop worrying about that and let me in on this case, huh? Or are you afraid I'll pick up on something else if you let me into your head?" She knocked on the side of his skull. "C'mon. I won't bite."

He sent her a quizzical stare and then burst out, "Why do you insist on teasing me about that woman?"

"Teasing you?" She couldn't contain her mirth and giggled. "You know how to pick your words, Bobby."

"Answer me!" He was beginning to lose his temper, and she noticed it was one of those _just so_ situations which could escalate to a slap across the face, or worse. When Bobby lost his temper, he threw it right out the window.

"I told you. Sometimes I wonder if you have a social life or if all you do is think about perps and how to catch 'em."

"Well, look what happens if you even suspect I think of other things!" He tucked his portfolio under his arm snugly and then made a sudden left turn into the bar. Eames had a sinking feeling in her gut. The bar, just opening for the day, was sporting a lunch menu and already had a few takers going for the early-bird special.

At the stage the hippie-girl was barefoot and hefting an amplifier into place by herself. It started to slide, and Goren sidestepped a waitress, catching half the amplifier easily.

"Whoa! Thanks, man." The girl hardly looked over her shoulder as he helped her lower the amp to the ground. As soon as she'd dusted her hands off, she looked over at him, and then grinned, popping him gently on the shoulder.

"Bobby! Back so soon?"

"Sorry to bother you," he sounded out of breath, and he was frowning just a little, "but my partner has been giving me hell since last night. Did it seem like I was hitting on you?"

The woman's eyebrows raised. She gave Eames a funny look and then turned back to Detective Goren, her eyes a little wider. "No, not really." He seemed a little flushed, and she smiled a little. "How unfair she should tease you. You and I wouldn't have even spoken if I hadn't informed you about the delicious Orgasm you missed."

Goren felt his blush turn up a notch; she was most definitely baiting either him or Eames.

"There! You made him blush!"

"That is _not_ flirting, Eames!" He rounded on her, dangerously close to losing his temper again.

The woman, Jenny, caught his arm and tugged it. "Oh, no, she was talking about me. _I'm _flirting with you, Detective."

A strange smile crossed Goren's face. "Oh…"

"Thanks for help with the amp." She smiled back and then turned, bending for her guitar. "Is that all you needed? To rescue me and prove to your partner I'm the one doing all the flirting?"

"For now, yeah." Goren smiled and indicated the guitar. "You're playing alone tonight? Acoustic?"

"Well, yeah. Brock and I will be doing it duo-style. He'll be playing bass on a few, and the rest I'll be solo." She sat and began tuning her guitar, her eyes locked on his. "Maybe you can stop in and hear a few."

"We'll see." Goren indicated Eames. "The case we're working on—it's not going as smoothly as one would hope."

"You don't happen to know any crack-heads who like to wear Armani, do you?" Eames asked playfully.

Jenny laughed, and Goren felt his smile coming back, but shoved it back down in case Eames started watching him again. Jenny had a beautiful laugh, though, and Goren wasn't immune to Eames' quick wit.

"No, sorry. None that ring a bell." She wagged her eyebrows. "Say, is he always so quiet?"

"Half shy, half totally unaware of what he's doing." Eames affirmed and grabbed his elbow to lead him away from the amp, which he'd been guarding somewhat since he'd caught half of it and set it down.

"I'll bet he makes a great detective." She laughed again and slipped some flip-flops on her feet, rearranging a few more things on stage quickly.

"She's like your conjoined twin, Bobby." Eames whispered as Jenny slipped backstage and reemerged with two stools for she and Brock to play on later. "Only you're not used to putting up with…you."

Goren turned away, a new blush on his face, one which startled Eames. "She's…not wearing a bra."

Eames' face twitched and she smiled at Jenny before waving and half-dragging Goren out the door. Once outside, she couldn't resist.

"You turned six shades of red, my boy!" She laughed as he elbowed her and arranged his portfolio briskly. "I think you like her. Do you? Come on, tell me. It's worse having me tease you about it than if I just know, all right?"

"I've talked to her _twice,_ Eames."

"So? I thought I liked you and I'd only known you twenty minutes." She wagged her eyebrows. "It's just you being you, Bobby."

"Well, I don't make decisions like that based on two conversations."

"They say you know what you feel about a person within the first ten seconds of meeting them. Technically you should be able to tell how good she is in bed by her handshake."

"Haven't shaken her hand."

"All right…tonight when we stop in to interview the local heroin heads, we'll talk to her." Eames nudged him. "You can shake her hand."

"Besides, if first impressions were what we based all our relationships on, I wouldn't have lasted two seconds in any workplace or school in the world." Goren kicked a stone carefully and watched it skip into a drainage hole.

Eames sighed. "Well, at least she was honest with you. She's flirting. It's obvious you impressed her What do you have to lose?"

"My sanity, or what I have left." Goren suddenly felt distracted and shifted in his coat. "Let's go back to the station. I want to check the DMV records."

Eames was successfully shut up. "Okay, buddy."

* * *

"Any progress?" Deakins asked as he passed through the desks where Goren and Eames had just spread their Chinese food dinner among paperwork and photographs. 

"Where did Bronson take those DMV records? The server's overworked and I need to see the photos to compare." Goren, playing with his latex gloves, was scratching at the photo in the license they had obtained from their crime scene.

"Talk to me, Eames." Deakins turned to Eames, who was swallowing some sesame chicken. She took a sip of water and leaned back in her chair.

"He thinks a woman killed one of them and then picked off some poor nobody to switch identities with to hide the initial death and hide any possible motive." Eames ignored the actuality she had confused the captain. "There's a possibility there are more victims, and the deaths were almost at the same time in estimation. Bobby thinks maybe she planted the bodies in different locations to buy herself time so the bodies wouldn't be discovered at the same time. Unfortunately they were, and we see a possible connection."

"That's a lot of possibilities to deal with." He eyed Goren, who had jumped up, holding chopsticks and Thai noodles, staring around, hunting for Bronson silently.

"But the girl at the bar copped to flirting with him." Eames half-whispered. "He dragged me in to prove he wasn't hitting on her, and she said she'd been hitting on _him,_ and you should have seen him blush, Captain."

Deakins grinned and looked surreptitiously at Goren, who had dug another mouthful of noodles out of the box he was holding with his chopsticks. He glared at the two of them.

"I'll find Bronson." Deakins offered, and fled before Goren's highly tuned ears finally relayed to his brain what they'd picked up.

"Sometimes I hate you back, Eames." He sat and grumpily turned his back on her to check his computer for the server again.

Deakins came back some ten minutes later with Bronson beside him. They paused, and Bronson flinched when Goren pounced on him, nearly ripping the paperwork from him.

"Eames!" He waved her over. "Notice anything strange?"

"I'll be damned!" She whispered, staring at the single driver's license scan from the DMV directly. The picture matched the photo Goren and Eames had found on the body in the toilet, but the name matched with the photo, as based from the serial numbers Eames had plugged into the registry, was not a match to the license Goren and Eames had found. It was a match, however, to the license SVU had pulled from their body in the woods. Aaron Whittaker's photo was on Joshua Hurley's license, and vice versa.

"But why switch the photos?" Eames asked, obviously puzzled. "The only problem it made for us was making us wait to get the files printed."

Goren looked up, trying to think. "She over-complicated it." Then Goren's face caved in a little. "She _did_ switch licenses! Then she switched pictures so the ID could be made by the family by picture and not by name."

"They put the victim's real face on the other victim's ID?" Deakins asked, raising his eyebrows.

"She…killed the one she knew first, obviously." Goren was off in his world now, and Eames could almost see his mind spitting up the next _fact_ he was going to be sure of. "Probably rage, or fear. Hence the facial demolition. She couldn't stand to see his face anymore." He spoke in fragments, his eyes unblinking again, his fingers spread over the documents lovingly. "She realized what she had done, and continued to tear at his face until not even she could recognize him. Then…she had help. Someone took him to the woods or the bathroom, and she found some poor schmuck, killed him, and did up his face. Who had the worse cuts?"

"Hard to say." Eames sighed unhappily. "One's face is all water-logged from the adventure to Toilet-World, and the other was full of dirt and debris."

"Does the ME still have both bodies?"

"Ooh, a field trip! I do love a field trip!" Eames clapped her hands and found her coat.

"I'm making a couple of phone calls along the way. Get us a cab, will you?" He turned away, distracted, and his eyes grew distant. "Smell."

"Is it just me," Deakins indicated Goren and caught Bronson's eye. "Or did he just go crazy? Again?"

Eames grinned and made a fist, holding in front of her happily. "He's Bobby! You have to love him!"

"Shh!" Goren fluffed himself and turned his back on the three of them, wriggling his nose and preparing to put on The Act. He dialed his cell phone.

"Watch and learn, Bronson." Deakins indicated Goren, who suddenly got a smug, predatory look on his face. "Mrs. Whittaker? This is Detective Goren from the Major Case Squad…so sorry to—to have to call you like this. I don't suppose you know where your husband is? No, no, he's not in trouble. We can't find him, is the trouble." Goren made a face like he was looking at two things and weighing them equally. "Well, to be totally honest, we found a discrepancy in his DMV files and just wanted to chat."

"What's he doing?"

"Wait for it."

Goren's face turned bright. "Thanks, Mrs. Whittaker. You can fax that right over. I'll make sure I keep you updated."

Bronson's face sank. "Shouldn't he tell her we suspect his husband was murdered?"

Goren hung up the phone. "She knows he's dead." He pulled on his coat and put his cell phone in his pocket again. "I want full records. It's either her or the daughter. She didn't even question why I wanted to talk to him. I had to force it on her. She didn't even want to know."

"That doesn't mean—"

"I've learned, Bronson, and you will too. He gets the crazy thing going…and he's on the right path." Deakins shook his head. "He gets in their heads, Bronson."

"But he's saying it like it's true." Bronson argued, still aching to be as confident and loved as Goren and Eames.

Goren, zipping his portfolio, fell back into his quiet, thinking mode. He brushed between Bronson and Eames' desk and started whistling, "Oh! Darling" as loud as he could manage.

"The man is freaking crazy."

"He'll have the guy by the end of the week. You watch. Major Case goes through double what other precincts have because of them. And that? Eames pushing his buttons? Drives him into his work and he'll spit out the perp before sundown, you just watch." Deakins clucked his tongue. "But it drives a wedge in the partnership at the same time."

"How so?"

Goren popped back in, grabbing up more papers and stuffing them into his portfolio. He was still whistling, but anxious and sort of flighty.

"Bobby?"

He sustained a note, looking up. The note went sour, and he tucked the portfolio under his arm. "Captain."

"Catch this guy before Friday and you'll have the weekend to ask Jenny out."

Goren's lips thinned into a forced smile. "How fortunate. I'll make sure I put a rush on it. God knows I haven't had a good fuck and dash in ages."

After he'd whisked away, Deakins let out a slight laugh. "There."

* * *

"Without a doubt this poor idiot was the worse off." The ME, Danielle, removed her gloves and used a pair of tweezers to pull apart two flaps of adjoined skin to reveal the tip of a knife blade. "Whoever did this attacked his face with his knife so hard on this side his cheek isn't attacked to his skull anymore. He has no teeth left and a piece of the blade is wedged in the bone. I'll have to work it out with oils later." 

"Any genital mutilation?" Goren asked.

"My, what a ball of sunshine." Danielle said dryly and shook her head. "No, nothing below the neck."

"I don't think it was the wife, then. Well, at least not for cheating. They usually go for the…tender spots when they have the chance."

Eames put on a motherly smile and reached over, gently rubbing Goren's stomach. "Oh, magic gut, will my date to Prom kiss me?"

"You lost your virginity after your first Prom." Goren replied in a scathing tone, moving his body to the other side of the table.

"Close. My second Prom." Eames tossed her hair out of her eyes.

"It doesn't count if your date gets drunk and passes out ten minutes in." Goren replied and fluttered his eyelashes. "But I'm honored you still remember our first date."

"How could I forget? You know what they say about tall men with big feet." She bent over the body as if giving him a view down her blouse. "Takes a hell of a lot of liquor to get him that wasted."

The ME, however amused, had other business. "Your other victim is a little younger. Similar build, similar hair and bone structure. Ethnic groups are nearly identical."

"It would make it easier to kill again if the second victim looked like the first and the rage…the rage wasn't all the way gone yet." Goren bent and put his face right next to the second victim. "This is our drug addict."

"Did he whisper some sweet something in your ear?"

"No, but he's got a marijuana leaf tattooed on the back of his neck."

"Must be a hippie."

Goren bent closer and closed his eyes, trying to ignore Eames. "It's days like this I regret leaving Narcotics."

"What's gotten into you two?" Danielle asked, arching her eyebrows.

Eames tossed her hair over her shoulders again, trying to bait Goren so he'd stopped thinking and start talking. Now that they were examining the body, she was restless for what should come next.

"Some girl in a bar we were in last night was hitting on him and he didn't catch on. So we stopped in today and she copped to hitting on him and he still hasn't asked her out."

"Well, does she look all right?"

"She's a hippie." Eames said tragically, as if this alone separated Goren from the girl. "And he's fascinated with her bra situation daily. Whether she's wearing one or not, and if she's trying to minimize or enhance."

Goren straightened and rubbed his stomach. "Oh, magic gut…will I be able to stop myself before I kill Alex?"

His stomach rumbled hollowly, digesting the Chinese food with distaste. It sounded a little annoyed, and Goren pretended to listen, his eyebrows raised in saddened trepidation. "I'm so sorry, Alex…"

"Which bar?"

"It's the Back Door."

"Oh, I've been in there! Doesn't Deakins' cousin play in the band?"

"Yeah. And Deakins' cousin knows the girl who has a crush on Goren."

Goren sent them both a dazzling smile, straightening up a little. "It's people like you who make people like me snap and kill hundreds of other people who aren't like me."

"Luckily people like _me_ know how to push buttons, and then un-push them." Eames reached over the body and grabbed his portfolio. "We should look for the knife. First we need a warrant for the Whittaker house."

"I don't think it'll be there. We should search where the body was. The public restroom."

"She killed the second guy with the same knife, right?"

Danielle pulled at some of the cuts on the second victim's face. "Size and depth are similar. Just by this glance I can't be definitive."

"We'll search all three locations. She returned to the Whittaker guy at least once. She needed to go get help. And if not…well, suffice to say we've got enough room for more than one perp." Goren wrinkled his nose. "Our Armani man smells like sage and myrrh."

"Like…dare I say it? A hippie?"

"What do we need to get a warrant?" Goren asked instead, talking more to himself than anyone else.

"Probable cause. Which we don't have. Goren's gut feeling…should be part of Major Case handbook and warrant application, shouldn't it? By now?" Eames sighed heavily. "I'll bite. Let's go lure some probable cause out of the Whittaker Widow."


	3. Antisocial

"She'll be the jealous type. At least for a good relationship." Goren stretched his shoulders and Eames could tell he was waiting to put on The Act. He coughed a little to clear his throat, and then shifted his portfolio and rang the doorbell. Standing up straight, she watched his half-lidded, ever-thoughtful eyes dissolve. He was now a glassy-eyed, overworked cop. His feet slanted towards Eames and he sank his nearer shoulder.

"She's not a body language expert, Goren."

Goren sighed, thinking of a way to explain it to her without thinking too hard. "Body language is a subtlety we all understand. It'll be hard to put her finger on, but once we get inside—"

The door swung inward and a woman with her teeth glittering white stood in a pair of running shorts and a tee-shirt. She rested her hip against the inside of the door.

"Yes, can I help you?"

"Mrs. Whittaker?" Goren pumped her hand up and down enthusiastically. "We spoke over the phone earlier today? Detective Robert Goren."

"Ooh, aren't you getting the special treatment?" Eames smiled and extended her hand to shake next. "I'm Detective Alex Eames."

Goren slipped his free hand along Eames' back and pushed his portfolio into her spine. "May we come in, Mrs. Whittaker?"

Her eyes fell along his hand on her back and his feet, which pointed toward Eames. This seemed to put her at ease, and she took a step back, allowing the female detective and the enormous male detective into her home.

"Is that an original?" Goren indicated a finger-painting strung up in the room across from the room Mrs. Whittaker was leading them towards. He ambled off.

"Forgive him. He's got this thing with children—"

Mrs. Whittaker craned her neck around and stared as her two year old stared up at the man with the five o' clock shadow and the slightly graying temples with her jaw agape. Nearly five whole feet above the girl's head, Bobby Goren started making faces. She started to giggle, and when Goren carefully removed the picture and bent to show it to her, she began to brag about making it as best she could with incomplete sentences.

"That's amazing. I can't even make her behave for the babysitter and he waltzes in here…"

"Like I said. He's got a thing for kids. They love him and he loves them." Eames let her eyes drift over him and he peered over his shoulder, grinning.

"What's your name, precious?" He asked, keeping his eyes open and friendly. She had taken his hand to lead it over the lines she'd drawn with her finger-paints.

Now, squeezing his thumb with her whole hand, she giggled. "Cora."

"Cora? Now that's a pretty name. Where'd you get it?" He brushed his free finger over her nose gently. "Were you named after a princess? I'll bet you were."

Now infatuated, the little girl pulled his hand and forced him to bend in half as she pulled him from the kitchen into the sitting room where Eames and Mrs. Whittaker had just made themselves comfortable. Cora pushed Goren to the floor and he discarded his coat and portfolio, feigning no interest in Mrs. Whittaker whatsoever.

"We just have a few questions, Mrs. Whittaker." Eames flipped open a disorderly notepad. "And I have some terrible news I'm afraid."

Mrs. Whittaker's head bowed. "I might have guessed. What has he done?"

Goren allowed Cora to put a doll in his hands. He sat the doll up and pulled her hair gently to comb it off her perfect face, and then sat it up and made it wave its tiny arm to Cora, who ate it up, grabbing his fingers again, wrapping her entire hand around his single finger, entranced with how large and domestic he was.

"He's dead, Mrs. Whittaker."

She gasped, and Goren marveled her perfect timing; he could sense Eames regretting pulling a trick on the woman.

"Do you have other children, Mrs. Whittaker?" Goren asked, putting a small stuffed rabbit onto Cora's lap as she sat across the small area rug from him, her small eyes trained on him dutifully. "I know it's hard to explain when they're all so young—"

"My oldest is seventeen. Lucy. We have a son, Paul, and this is our youngest, Cora." Mrs. Whittaker still sounded like she needed to gasp. "But…how—?"

"We found him…well, do you know the public restrooms off Central Park?"

Goren saw Cora look up at her mother and frown a little. Goren twisted and watched. Mrs. Whittaker's face was stark white; she looked as if she'd just eaten bad sushi.

"We used to sneak in there…before the kids were born…and—"

"Get friendly?"

"Yes." She exhaled airily. "Did they plant him there?"

"They?" Goren eagerly pounced on her mistake.

"Well, someone must have killed him. I mean, it wasn't suicide, was it?" Her chest began to rise and fall quickly. "Or an accident? He swore to me he wouldn't get tangled up with any drugs once we hit some steady money! He swore!"

Goren was torn between telling her they knew what had happened and twisting her arm about knowing her husband was murdered. She seemed fragile, but a lot of women knew to sob and shake their heads.

"Do you know if your husband had any enemies?" Eames asked, easing the woman's mind away from Goren.

Cora got up with a pair of children's pink sunglasses. She pushed them onto Goren's face, and he twitched, thinking he might break them if she tried to hard to make him wear them. They hardly reached his ears, but he stared at her, aware how ridiculous he looked. With a great effort, he smiled and disengaged himself from Mrs. Whittaker again.

"He just opened a studio about twenty minutes from here near Chelsea." Mrs. Whittaker took a deep breath. "He and my daughter were having big fights and he was having his friends over more and more often. She didn't like them. They looked at her funny, she said."

"And you didn't do anything about it?" Goren frowned, removing the sunglasses to give the woman a serious look.

Mrs. Whittaker didn't like how the man could be so engaged in her daughter and then turn around and catch her in some oddity she didn't know would be important.

"She's a teenage girl. I figured she was just…paranoid. She wears turtlenecks and jeans everywhere—it's not like they were staring at her in her bra and underwear." Mrs. Whittaker shook her head. "Besides, she was just storming around to rile up her brother."

"How long have you been married, Mrs. Whittaker?" Eames asked.

"We were married seven months before Lucy was born." The woman answered and sniffled, now with two tears on her face. "So about seventeen years now. A few more months and it would be eighteen."

Goren's ears perked visibly to Eames. They'd both heard it; it wasn't enough for a warrant, but she had referred to her husband in the past tense, which meant she was aware he was dead. Most spouses didn't use the past tense the day they learned of the other's death.

"Do you own a gun, Mrs. Whittaker?"

"Was he shot?" She gasped.

Eames leaned away, wrinkling her nose. "We need to know as much as possible before we can tell you that. You can come into the morgue to tell the ME where you want the body sent after the autopsies are all done." Eames then jabbed Goren in the back with the butt of her pen. "Bobby, did we get his fingerprints matched up yet?"

"He's not in the system. Never even been pulled over for a traffic ticket." Goren replied, turning around a little and smiling at Eames. "I even checked his credit. The guy was golden."

"Well, an identification may be necessary, too. I mean…his face is a terrible mess, but—"

"What happened to his face?" Mrs. Whittaker squealed.

"There's a remote chance it was a serial killer." Goren turned back to Cora and put a tiara on her head, smoothing hair from her small, blue eyes. "There, now you're a real princess."

Not interested in her mother's fear or the strange woman's drilling eyes, the little girl threw her arms around Goren and hugged his neck, giggling again. Mrs. Whittaker, now disturbed by the man's indifference to her situation, sent a glare to Eames.

"Cora has to go to sleep now."

"I'll help you pry him off her." Eames smiled and nudged him with her foot. "It's naptime for the little lady, Bobby."

"Oh!" He reluctantly peeled her from his neck and removed her tiara and sunglasses, sending her an apologetic face. "Sorry, Princess Cora. It's time for some royal slumber. But I'll be back, I promise."

Her lower lip began to wobble. She began to cry.

"I'm going to call my kids. They shouldn't stay over at their friends' tonight." Mrs. Whittaker picked up her daughter and bit her knuckle, fighting tears. "Please leave. If you need something else, call me tomorrow. I need to put her to bed and get my kids…"

Goren nodded solemnly. "We'll keep you posted, Mrs. Whittaker." He winked at Cora, who wailed louder, losing her playmate thanks to her grieving mother.

Once outside, Eames let out her breath. "I should have you baby-sit my nephew sometime."

"I'm not as good with the princes." Goren smiled a little. "Girls, biologically…they—they are more easily soothed. Boys and their mothers will—they cry more and they fuss more. A little girl can throw a tantrum, but once she gets what she wants, it's all over. She loves…loves you again."

"Too bad that philosophy doesn't last through adulthood, huh?" Eames nudged his upper arm with her shoulder, too short to do much else.

"Oh, I don't know." He shrugged. "Buy a woman a ring and a diamond and she'll give you a little longer to prove you're not worthless. Or doesn't it work that way anymore?"

"Did you really like that little girl, or was that all pretend?" Eames asked quietly.

"She was sweet. I could put up with her, sure." Goren tucked his pen into his portfolio as he sat in the back of a new cab with Eames. "But she didn't like me playing with her daughter at all, did she?"

"No. She was creeped out you could listen so intently while amusing the girl so much." Eames shifted. "Her husband probably did the same thing, you think?"

"Probably." Goren squirmed. "The little one misses her daddy. The older two don't, I'll bet. I'm not entirely sure if Mommy doesn't know what they've done, or she's a good actor and the kids don't know."

"Do we have probable cause?"

"Let's get the trace from the body and link it to the Whittaker house first." Goren looked at his watch. "We can get back into the lab before nine. If we find some fibers and can link it to anything we've seen in the house, we can link the place of murder to their house."

"Good idea." Eames flicked open her cell phone. "Bronson? Call trace for me and have the report faxed to the station. We'll be back around nine thirty." She paused. "No, it's not solved yet."

Goren gritted his teeth and walked a little faster.

* * *

"Do you think we need an all-nighter?" Eames asked as Goren started tilting crime scene photos to examine the second victim's hiding place in the woods outside Chelsea. "Really, this seems like once we get the warrant we could serve it tonight, find the knife, and be done tonight. Or…if we have a tough time proving our case to Carver and getting the warrant, we could pick up in the morning. You saw Mrs. Whittaker. They don't have enough scratch to _flee._"

Goren looked at his watch, wrinkling his nose. "We wait for trace. We analyze. We decide then."

"Who do you think was first?"

"I need to speak to the daughter first. Lucy." Goren tilted his head. "This body was dressed post-mortem."

"How so?" Eames stood up, peering at the picture as Goren held it out excitedly. "There. The buttons are all crunched at the front, like someone crammed him into these. Might be why SVU found the pants mostly undone. That'd be why they assumed rape or sex crime and called them in. I wonder why then didn't find the buttons."

Eames' eyes widened. "So, one of the Whittakers kills the husband while he's in his casual wear. They realize what they did, and find some poor schmuck and off him, too. They switch driver's license photos and ditch the bodies in two places. They know the husband wears Armani and dress him up like that so we don't ask questions."

"Yeah, but we do ask questions." Goren said quietly. "I think…the daughter probably has some valuable information. Also, I'd like to know how many people he was meeting with about his studio. This might be greed-fueled."

"I'll call the studio for his appointment books."

"Good." Goren snatched the toxicology reports and the trace reports from the fax machine as he sauntered by, stumbling a little as he always seemed to do. "Aaron Whittaker was coked out of his mind. The one we were supposed to find, anyway. The real Aaron Whittaker was clean as a whistle." He flashed the report around for Eames to glance at. "He only had orange juice in his stomach."

"Breakfast?"

"Only as far as the juice. Did his wife not make him pancakes?" Goren got a faraway look on his face. "Or maybe he made breakfast for his kids to give his wife a break?"

"We'll figure that out later." Eames gathered the papers into a manila file folder for presentation to Captain Deakins. "We'll call for the appointments and then ask Deakins to let us get a warrant."

Goren shifted unhappily. "It'd be bad of us to call on the daughter now, wouldn't it? I'll call the other's next of kin to see if they have anything valuable to offer."

"Sounds good." Eames sat down and picked up her phone. "Get to work, then!"

Goren stood a moment, marveling how Eames could be a perfectly bearable human being. She sipped some coffee and picked up her phone.

"Get it done now and we won't have to pull an all-nighter. You'll just go crazy wanting to talk to Lucy Whittaker anyway."

Goren sat heavily. "I can't stop thinking about motive. We need to find motive, and soon. Otherwise it's just—"

"Mrs. Whittaker said her husband was inviting his friends over and they were looking at the daughter." Eames reminded him. "Maybe she got sick of him letting his friends make eye-candy out of their daughter."

"He was a dedicated father. He helped her with the finger-painting. He treats her like a princess—didn't you see the tiara?" Goren lined his fingers up in a fan-spread and rested his chin on his thumbs. "Cora was the only blonde in the family."

"That is genetically possible, you know?" Eames listened to the phone ringing in her ear. "Read the trace report."

He pulled those papers out and hunched over them. As he became immersed in what he read, he began to pull out other papers. Pretty soon he was spread over his entire desk with his pencil, his eyebrows furrowed, and his tie loosened again. He'd discarded his jacket already, and as he stretched for another piece of paper, he knocked a coffee cup full of pens to the ground. The cup broke, but he didn't flinch. He circled another fun-fact and sat back.

"Aaron Whittaker. We found him in the Central Park public restroom with his head in the toilet. He had Joshua Hurley's license on him with his own photograph stuck on." Goren was interrupted when Eames' phone rang. He continued as if nothing had happened while she picked up and watched him intently. "His wife figured something had happened to him. They found the body Wednesday, making it two days old, just about. Puts the murder on Monday morning, just about." He circled another piece of information, this one from his personal notes. "Joshua Hurley was reported missing four hours before Mr. Whittaker was found. Hurley's body was found three hours before Whittaker's."

"Should we interview the discoverers?"

"Yes. Especially our bathroom buddy." Goren indicated her phone. "Who is it?"

She leaned into the mouthpiece. "I'm putting you on speaker. Talk to Bobby, too."

She pushed a button and folded her arms, placing the receiver back into the cradle.

"The man from Central Park found in the toilet drowned." Danielle's voice floated pleasantly through the office, stalling Deakins as he passed through the room with fresh coffee. "I thought blood loss at first, because he was nearly dead because of that, but his heart was weak. There was tons of blood in the toilet water sample. We found his blood and a lot of toilet water in his lungs, too."

Goren stared, his eyes unseeing. "She thought he was dead. They killed Hurley before they were even sure Whittaker was dead. But they wanted him to be dead, and soon."

"Hurley's time of death is eight o' clock on Monday morning. Just a few hours after Whittaker's estimated TOD."

Eames shook her head. "Son of a bitch. Thanks." She hung up and stared at Goren, seeing how the pieces were falling into place around them.

"What did the studio say?"

"They're faxing me his list of appointments for last week through today." She tapped her pen against her chin. "I also called Hurley's parents, while you were putting together your collage. They didn't know he'd left rehab."

"Were they upset?"

"Very. They want the body by Friday."

"They can have it by Friday." Goren said firmly. "I want the girls by Thursday, though."

Goren looked at his watch. "Captain, do you have the statements from the person who found the body?"

"Which one? SVU sent over their statements, too." Deakins tilted his head to one side. "Along with their condolences for Alex."

Goren waved his hand. "Yeah, I know, what a tragedy she has to work with me. Where are the documents?"

"I'll get Bronson—"

Goren turned abruptly. A few seconds later the fax machine started. He looked at his watch as if pressed for time.

"There's not much more we can do tonight. If you put together everything we need for tomorrow, you could still make the show." Eames looked into her paper work and started to stack and sort.

"I could." He replied in a distracted tone and then bustled to his desk, checking his list for facts, clearly not interested in the fax anymore.

Eames sighed and got up, grabbing the papers. Bronson appeared with the statements. Goren took them without a word and started reading, gnawing on his right thumb. The toilet-man had been found by the custodian who noticed a little blood on the floor when he bent to check the stalls, and then took notice of the smell. A jogger had found Armani-man.

"Oh, no…"

"What?" He suddenly regretted not taking the fax.

"The day the ME said Whittaker died, he was scheduled to meet someone at the Back Door." She looked up. "Jennifer Cooper and the Wildcats."

Goren's heart pounded and he shook his head. "Irrelevant."

"Irrelevant? He died the day he was going to see her!"

"He died before he got there! She wasn't the last person to see him, Alex!" He pointed furiously to his notes. "His wife, on the other hand, wasn't concerned with her daughter's paranoia let alone interested in her husband's blossoming career."

"Still, I think we should talk to Jenny and see what she has to say about her missed appointment. Maybe he called to tell her why he couldn't make it." Eames stood up, shrugging on her jacket. "And maybe you can prove to me it's irrelevant."

"Fine, but don't expect something miraculous." Goren also shrugged on his coat and buttoned it. He put his cell phone in his pocket and put his portfolio under his arm, taking up his notes to stuff into the unzipped side.

Deakins also shook his head. "She didn't do it, Eames. She may have information, though, Bobby. At least keep an open mind."

* * *

"Do you want to do it?" Eames asked gently as she steered her SUV nearer the curb to park. "Or do you think she'd resent you asking her questions?"

"She's not a suspect, so I don't think she'd resent me, no." Goren squirmed a little. "I'll do it and I'll be fine."

Eames parked and looked at her watch. "Look, if she doesn't provide a lead, I think it's time for us to turn in and pick up again in the morning. Did you read the trace file?"

"No, you got the fax and I put it in my—" He tapped the leather portfolio. "I'll read it tonight and put together something for a warrant."

Eames nodded. "Sounds good."

"We need the ME's report on the size of the knife and all that."

"I have it." She patted her tote. "Five inch knife, serrated."

"Not a bread knife." Goren opened his door and got out, staring quietly at his feet. "Maybe a hunting knife. For flaying fish."

"The son?"

"She had access. Or maybe help." He walked beside her as she locked her car with her key-chain. He held the door for her and followed her in. They stood in the entrance a moment. The club was packed. The moment the door closed behind them, Jenny and Brock, onstage, started an original acoustic duet with some soft lyrics and even softer harmonies.

Goren felt a little sick to his stomach. He didn't want her to feel under suspicion, but he had to admit she may be holding the key to his entire case.

On duty, Goren and Eames simply took seats toward the back of the bar, waiting for the set to finish. Goren dreaded having to bring her in for interrogation. He knew she'd probably provide trivial information, if any, but knew if she had anything bigger under her nails, he'd be forced to bring her in.

"It would be a terrible first date." Eames agreed with his thoughts accidentally. "Bringing her in for interrogation."

"Which is why I don't intend to." Goren said stiffly.

"You need to keep your objectivity, Bobby." She replied in a similar tone, and then swiveled to catch his eye. "You do your job well. Don't forget."

The set finished and Jenny, mirroring the night Bobby and Alex had first meandered in to drink away a case well closed, made her way to the bar and started ordering drinks. She handed her friend Brock his shot and took her drink, something red with an umbrella sticking out of it, across the room.

As she passed in front of Goren and Eames' table, she stumbled a little and turned, her eyes lighting up.

"Back again! I can't get rid of you, can I?" She fluffed her hair. "I know; I'm gorgeous." She bent and plucked his badge, which was poking out of his jacket. "Oh, but you're on _duty._ How can I help?"

"Peppy enough?" Eames asked under her breath.

Goren smiled weakly. "I need to talk to you about Aaron Whittaker."

Her eyes softened a little, and Goren stiffened, wondering what that meant.

"Sure, I could talk to you about him. Come over here where it's quieter." She sipped her drink. "Unless you'd rather we three all sit and chat here. I don't mind."

"No, he'll take you alone." Eames patted his back. "He's on duty. I trust him not to turn on the charm."

"Ah, but can you trust me?" She fluttered her eyelashes, and then straightened, her expression becoming severe. "What part of the police do you work for?"

While Goren directed her towards the tables she'd indicated, he felt his heart sinking. "Major Case Squad."

"So, what might have happened that Major Case would want a piece of Aaron Whittaker?" Her eyes softened yet again. "He's a sweetheart. He has three kids, a wife, and a budding career in music. He was thrilled to be getting his first signature Monday night." She sighed and rested her head in her hands. "Is he okay? In trouble?"

"We're investigating a murder. It involves him."

"But he wouldn't hurt anyone! I mean, sure, he didn't show up Monday night, but—" Her eyes widened. "He didn't call to tell me why, but his wife—"

"His wife called to say why he missed the appointment?" Goren flicked open his portfolio. "What'd she say?"

"She said he and their daughter were driving to school together to talk some stuff out." She turned back into her calm, analytical self and thinned her lips. "She sounded a little upset, but more rushed than anything else. She told me not to expect a call from him in a while. I thought at first he must have been kicked out."

"Did he and his wife have a lot of troubles?"

Jenny snorted and put her drink down. "I'll say. Their youngest isn't even his child. His wife is a veritable slut. She is a lady of the night." Jenny rubbed her face. "She had severe postpartum depression and started to diverge from the family. She'd just started to sway the daughter when he started getting into a lot of fights at the home-front."

Goren felt at ease. He knew, deep in his magical gut, Jenny wasn't involved. What a heart-attack he'd been given at first when Eames had told him the victim had never shown up for his and Jenny's appointment. He settled back, watching her anxiously await information.

"I can't help him, really—"

"Look, it'll be in the news tonight anyway." He leaned over the table, compassionate all at once. "He's the victim, Jenny. His body was found last afternoon."

"Oh…no!" She looked a little shaky, and then began to fan her face. "But…no one would do that to him!" Her eyes turned angry, and she turned her emotions around on the heel of her imaginary boot. "That bitch! His wife!"

"Calm down. If you have any _evidence_ to help us, I would love it, but unless you've got something probative, we can't really take that to the DA." He pushed her hands and she eased back into her seat.

She took a few deep breaths and then squeezed Goren's fingers, slipping one hand away to drink some of her liquor. "He called me three times over about six months. The first time he talked to me about how wonderful he thought the Wildcats were. He said he was an ardent musician and loved our style. He wanted us to write more originals to have recorded. Two months later he called with a studio ready. We were preparing to sign with him. He called to give me a date and meeting place." She took a huge gulp and her eyes watered a little. "When he didn't show I thought he must have been in a row with his wife. Again."

Goren's eyebrows lifted. "A row?"

"You know, a fight?" She took another draw on the glass.

"Oh, I know. I just…didn't expect you to use British slang. But you're from England, aren't you? Northern or southern region?"

"Southern. Born here, back to England while Daddy was in the army." She saluted him. "After he died we moved back. Five years to get the accent, all of my schooling years to get rid of it. Comes out now and then." She hiccupped. "Did I help at all?"

"Do you know if Mr. Whittaker liked hunting or fishing?" Goren asked, scribbling in his notes.

Jenny closed one eye and leaned on the back of the stool, staring unseeingly. "Yeah, he and his son went to a deer camp in Canada every year. They went through Michigan. Paul brought some fudge from Mackinaw with him the last time they came back."

"Did you have a friendship with Mr. Whittaker?"

"Yeah, pretty much. He came to a lot of our shows. He always brought crowds to see us. It was good business, and he always suggested songs for the crowd we played to." Her eyes went even softer. "I can't believe he's dead. He was so…internalized. You'd never guess a word came out of his mouth that didn't involve music or that studio."

"Do you know how he got enough money to buy the studio?"

"Lottery. He won a little jackpot. Even after taxes he had a bit left over and put a second mortgage on his house." Jenny swirled the last swallow of her drink and then tossed it into the back of her throat. "You look contemplative. Whodunit, Bobby?"

"I'm not entirely sure, but I've got ideas." He reached up and rubbed his lips. "Besides, I couldn't tell you if I wanted to."

Jenny cleared her throat. "Straightforward question: why did your partner make you go it alone?"

"Straightforward answer: she knew I'd prefer handling it alone because I know you on a personal level." Goren replied, still scribbling.

"Another question: why haven't you asked me out?"

That drew him out of his papers. Feeling a bit like a puddle, he reached up and scratched at the back of his neck, forgetting for a moment she read into his body language as well as he read into her nervous anxiety while she waited for his answer. He licked his lips to prepare to speak, and then felt his feet touch the floor. Jenny's eyes fell to them, and as soon as he realized what he'd done, he felt himself blushing yet again.

"Well?" She rested her elbows on the table, having assessed his motions.

"It wouldn't really be smart to ask you out in the middle of an investigation, especially one involving a friend." He licked his lips again, and cursed mentally.

"So it's not my wonderful good looks scaring you away." She smiled playfully, and Goren's eyes fell to her feet. Her toes were turned inward. She was flirting, but she was scared out of her mind. She'd read his feet, though, and she had every right to be nervous.

He shook his head. "No, it's just courtesy. If I asked you out I'd have to cancel until this was solved. I work late until Eames and I figure it out. We've hit snag after snag with the physical evidence, and it's hard to prove anything. We don't even have the weapon. I'm going to be up until two or three tonight, I can already tell."

She cast her eyes down, and he noticed her chew on her lower lip a split second before she looked back up, confident again. "Well, thanks for telling me about Aaron. I'm glad I didn't catch it in the late-night news."

"As much as I'd like to pretend I was being considerate, I had a job to do." Goren turned his eyes into his notes. "But I am sorry about your friend. As far as we can tell, he was on the wrong end of a scorned horror."

"Whore," Jenny corrected with a grim darkness in her eyes. She stood up. Goren scrambled to get his stuff together, but as he did so, she walked over to him. He saw her shoulders lift, smelled the Tabasco from her drink for a split second, and then took a mental picture. He took in a slow breath, closed his eyes, and she kissed him. It didn't last long, at least not spectacularly long, but it was longer than a peck. Definitely longer than a peck. She was there long enough for Goren to notice her perfume, her shampoo, her hand on his thigh, supporting her as she strained her neck up to meet his face, and the slow way she released a breath.

As quickly as it happened, it was over. She popped away, her eyes alight with some beautiful hunt come alive.

"Thanks, Bobby. Find the guy."

"Do you know who Cora's father is?"

"Some deadbeat. Lives in a shelter on Broadway. He comes in now and then to glare at Aaron." Jenny squinted. "Come to think of it, I haven't seen him recently either."

"Know his name?"

"Joe? Josh? James? No." She lifted her eyebrows, noticing Goren was a little out of breath.

"I'm going to busy for the next few days." He said softly, looking into his portfolio again. He'd been on dates, just not recently. And he was capable of charming. A lot of women liked him. He was bolstering his ego, trying to work up both courage and memories of what was proper and what should come next.

Jenny stepped close again and took his pen from his portfolio. She scribbled on his notes and pulled away again, smiling happily. "If you have more questions, if you find anything you can tell me, and if you have a free evening sometime soon."

"Absolutely." He stared at her messy, thin, slanted handwriting, with her name and phone number. "Absolutely." He repeated and noticed his voice had risen in pitch with his glee.

She smiled, pleased with his actions—she was impressed with him to say the least.

Eames knew it must have been something good if Goren wasn't already done. He usually didn't beat around the bush, especially if the person being questioned was a friend. She stood up, bored with not drinking and watching the hockey game on television. The New York Rangers were losing, anyway. Walking to the other side of the bar, she slowed when she saw Goren reach forward just as Jenny was turning to walk away. He pulled her by the arm and Eames stopped. The girl slipped between his legs, which were propped apart because he'd put his feet on the lowest rung of his stool again. One of Goren's arms was around her waist. His other was still holding her arm. The girl had her arms around his neck. They were _kissing._

"Dear God!" Eames exclaimed, suddenly realizing how many witnesses were around. She closed her eyes. "Jesus, not _now,_ Bobby! You're on _duty!_"

Still, she couldn't avoid watching his indiscretion. Eames opened her eyes and observed. After a moment, he released Jenny's arm and she squirmed closer, on her barefoot tip-toes. It was a health hazard. Eames could hear Deakins screaming at her for not at least warning them how stupid Goren and Jenny were being.

Goren and Jenny parted for air, and Eames rushed forward. She grabbed his portfolio and nearly beat him over the head with it when she saw Jenny's phone number.

"Christ, we have to _file_ these notes!"

Goren stood up, blushing to his hairline. Jenny, squeezing Goren's hand, darted away without speaking, a smile lighting up her pink face. She disappeared backstage. Goren reached up to cover his mouth to defend it from Eames if she decided to hit him.

"I can't _believe_ you!"

"Would you relax? I was done…we finished the—the wife knew." He blinked and pointed at the area Jenny had disappeared into. "She said Cora isn't Aaron's kid and she said the real father comes in here sometimes. Only he's been missing for a while. She said his name may have been James, or _Josh._ She said Aaron knew it wasn't his kid."

Eames relaxed a little and eyed his extensive notes. "Where's the heart with Jenny's name doodled in it?"

"I already pocketed that." He replied haughtily, feeling ridiculously lighthearted. "We should get back to the Police Plaza and sort the new evidence. I need to read the trace file, still."

Eames sighed, covering her eyes with her free hand. "You scared me there, Bobby."

"Give me a break. I catch hell for a day about that girl and I get her number and you chew me out." Goren blinked. "I haven't even known her 24 hours."

"Normally I'd say that the fact shouldn't stop you." Eames sighed. "But she's part of the investigation now. No dating until this sucker is closed."

"Still. It's not my M.O." He insisted, tilting his head to one side as they swept outside the bar and back toward the station. "At least…the trace file." He opened his portfolio without another word. "Ground up ceramics? Like in pottery or a vase of some kind." He tilted his head. "Not expensive."

"How old is Paul?" Eames asked, and Goren pulled out that record too, tilting it so he could read it without turning his head back to its normal position. "Eleven."

"Kids do school projects like that all the time at his age." Eames said, a swell of pride in her chest she knew something Goren didn't.

Goren made a face. "This looks like it's all in the family. Whittaker versus Whittakers."

"Give me a break." Eames looked at her watch. "It's been one hell of a long day, you. Let's file the rest of the paperwork, see about getting the warrant, and check out the lead Jenny gave you. We can get that done in a few hours and get the hell home for some sleep." She yawned. "I either need coffee or sex in the next few days. Preferably both."

"I'll ask Jenny if she has a brother."

"Just because you have her number doesn't mean I'm not going to tease you about her." Eames warned, her tone severe. "After all, you two were practically trading stomach acid in there."

Goren cleared his throat, sitting up tall in Eames' SUV. "I am a grown man, thank you."

"Yeah, grown enough to have your badge taken away because you were looking for some late-night loving."

Goren looked up from the trace file. "Danielle got the make of knife from the single stab wound on the entire body, right? The one to the neck?"

"Right."

"Well, a five in hunting knife, serrated, what's that for? Separating meat from bone?" Goren pulled a picture of Aaron Whittaker's face, postmortem, and tilted it, twisting his head and squinting his eyes. "This separated Whittaker's cheek from his face. As if…stuck in and then sliced." His nose squished to one side of his face. "As if the person's intent were to stop him from…smiling."

"Crime of impulse?"

"Pushed too far, thought too much what it would feel like to do it. Impulsive, yes, but also rational. Whoever did this thought she had the right to do so." He indicated the gruesome photo. "And she wants everyone else to see how she felt too."

"Okay, so what do you think drove her to do it? Still assuming it's the wife."

"I have to talk to the daughter." He flipped to a new page of his notes and started scribbling. "We'll get a warrant for the house using the trace to find the hunting knife. While there, we'll look for a motive."

"What part did the son play? Why the hunting knife?" Eames looked at him as she rounded a corner and narrowly avoided a pizza delivery boy. "Why did the family gang up on him?"

"Abandonment. People tend to lash out when they've been left. He was abandoning them for his studio. He ignored his wife because he'd already lost her and their last child…his daughter accused him of flaunting her to his male friends." Goren reached up and rubbed his face. "Sometimes there really aren't innocent victims."


	4. Dissociation

"Do you have to do this now—?"

"We have this little slip of paper." Goren flapped it under Mrs. Whittaker's nose. "It's called a search warrant. If we allowed you to close the door and relax, we wouldn't be doing our job."

Sputtering a little, she took a step out of the way, reading the warrant furiously, almost on the verge of spitting a little fire at them for treating her home in such a way. While Eames snapped latex gloves over her delicate fingers, Goren slipped on his own pair, carefully looking at a new finger-painting Cora had created.

"See? Look at all the blue." Goren nudged Eames. "She's sad."

"Miss her daddy?"

A few moments later, the officers checking the garage came inside to report they'd found two hunting knifes, neither of which were serrated. The children, all three of them, were home from school. The son, Paul, was playing video games in his room, his jaw painfully tight. Goren watched him a moment, realizing how little they wanted to interact with one another, let alone the police crawling through the house. Not even a harsh word.

"What are you playing?" He asked the boy softly.

"Grand Theft Auto. San Andreas."

Goren observed him manipulate his character into beating a prostitute to death. He took all her money and the car he'd stolen and went on with his routine.

"When was the last time you went hunting with your father?"

The boy shrugged, twisting scrawny shoulders this way and that uncomfortably. "I dunno. Early October, I guess. Just after school started."

"What kind of hunting?"

"Bow-hunting."

"You haven't gone deer-hunting in Canada or Michigan this year?"

The boy twisted around, a strangely hollow look in his eyes. "I fucking hate Michigan."

Goren's eyes lidded a little. He brought himself to his full height, blocking out the harsh reality of this wild child. Cora, peering around the corner in the far room, exploded in delight, racing around her brother to Goren's leg, which she grabbed, warbling happily into the fabric of his pants. Bending, Goren smiled and bounced a light finger off the girl's nose.

"Hello, Princess Cora! How's the palace?"

Her fingers, still covered in yellow paint at varying levels of dryness, wound into his hair. She hugged his head, and Goren laughed, pulling away to observe her. She had a red welt on her upper arm, nothing dangerous, but it hadn't been there the night before. The house wasn't tidy, but it wasn't messy, either. Perplexed, Goren noticed the way the boy had arranged himself on the couch, a glass of water on one side, and a slightly messed plate to his right, the fork turned over with a napkin spread over it on top of the plate.

"Pall! Pall!"

"Shuttup, Cora." He punched more buttons on the controller and killed a policeman. Turning around, he smiled cryptically at Goren. "Go on. Take her with you."

Picking the girl up, he did so, deciding though the boy was trying very hard to scare everyone, he was more passive than aggressive. Feeling yellow-paint-fingers scraping along his neck and cheeks, Goren sought a place to put the girl down. When he found a reasonable play-area, he moved to put her down. She started to cry, and when he put her down, she took his fingers, slopping paint on him again, and dragged him into her bedroom where a huge crib lay, the side of it mussed. As if suspecting this had something to do with what Goren was there for, Cora pointed.

She babbled at him, trying to formulate a sentence, but it made no sense. Goren's understanding of children, the id, as it were, was used up. He shook his head, perplexed, and then bent, touching her bedding with delicate, rubber-free fingers. He put on his glove again, lifted the corner of her sheet, and wrinkled his nose. He pulled the sheet, which was dotted with blood, from the bed, and reached back under the soft mattress in the crib. He touched the knife, and pulled it from the mattress. Down feather were stuck to the blood still drying on the weapon.

"Goren—" Eames entered, holding a smashed piece of pottery. It looked like the bottom of a vase.

He turned, holding the knife in one hand, and the sheet in the other while Cora stood, rocking back and forth on her heels, tiny pigtails with curly ends swinging on the apples of her cheeks. Her eyes, wide and understanding, saw what Goren held.

"Murder weapon." He said softly.

"Link to the place of murder."

"All that remains is the talk with the daughter to establish motive. Let's grab her and the son for good measure. The mother can come with to supervise, but that's all." He stared at Cora unhappily. "We'll put a rush on fingerprinting to narrow it down."

"Did you talk to the son?"

"He's killing hookers and beating up cops on his video games." Goren dropped the knife into an evidence bag Eames automatically held out to him as he neared her. "Seems kind of underweight. Grouchy."

"He's preteen. Maybe—"

"He'd eaten something right before he started it. I'm assuming, by the way our princess here treated him when she saw him, he's not always like that." At the sound of the word "princess," Cora ran to Goren and wiped yellow paint onto his pant legs, grinning at him ecstatically.

"Big bad Bobby Goren, playing with the princess." Eames tilted her head. "Sweet, isn't it? We have to bring her whole family in to answer for these things, Bobby."

"I know."

"Seems lately you've been conflicted about a lot of stuff like this."

"Just emotions, Eames. The logic of justice comes through, shining clear. She'll have an aunt or baby-sitter who can watch her."

Eames nodded, and then turned to walk away, holding her evidence bags in front of her, pleased to no ends. "Oh, and I put the fingernail into the lab for testing."

"Did you get a look at it?"

"Yeah. No polish. Possibly female yet, though."

And, just as Goren turned to roll the sheet and put it into the paper bag Eames had left for him, he heard the tapping of heels on the wood hallway floor. Eames made room for the girl, who, in her moment of first impression, stood, her dark hair thrown up in a messy ponytail, her hands on her hips, her curved eyebrows arced downward in rage.

"What are you doing in Cora's room, you behemoth?"

"Being a behemoth." Goren replied, and then shook his leg, dislodging Cora carefully. "Would you mind? I need to bag this up."

The girl's face turned sourer. She removed her hands from her hips and took up the baby girl, her upper lip completely engulfed by her lower one. For a moment she sized Goren up, and then clapped her heeled feet to the floor firmly. "What are you doing?"

"This sheet is covered in blood. There was a hunting knife in your sister's bed." He looked towards the ceiling. "That's criminal neglect. Endangering a child."

The girl's sour face turned bright. "Good! Get my little sister the hell out of here!" She made as if to shove the baby into his arms. "God knows we don't take care of her!"

Sensing both sarcasm and truth in her tone, Goren slipped an arm around the young child's waist and lifted her away from the flippant, capricious sister. Sending her a horrible snarl, he swept past her with the bag in his free hand.

"Anything definitive?"

"Nothing. Just a knife hidden in the baby's bed." Goren replied in a strained tone. "As if to blame _her._"

"Are you going to arrest somebody?" The son's voice echoed from the den. He was eating again, this time with the plate on his lap, the fork stabbed into a chunk of fully cooked hamburger, no bun or condiment visible.

"Dieting?" Goren asked, handing the bag to a crime technician as he passed.

"I felt nauseous because I had too much fruit this morning." The boy said stiffly, again his eyes sliding from the screen to Goren's face. He observed the man holding his sister and smiled. "She likes you."

He glanced down at the child, who, despite being caught in a web of noises and opening and closing doors, had rested her head against his shoulder and fallen asleep, her yellow thumb in her mouth. Goren shifted her so she wasn't slouched over, her neck bent awkwardly, and looked up at the boy, who had stuffed the rest of the hamburger into his thin face.

"Celiacs?"

The boy looked up, and then paused his game, carrying his dish into the kitchen. He came out of the kitchen with a piece of raw hamburger he held it out to Goren, the bright red meat slipping between his fingers and running red down his wrists.

"Red meat and salt. Gluten-free. Water, salt, and meat. Red meat. I eat one piece of fruit, and I get sick. I eat something off a frying pan that once held butter, and I could die. My stomach will eat my muscles." His smile returned. "Hunting was a necessity in this house after we found out about me." He extended the meat to Goren further. "Used to just be steamed vegetables. But Daddy thought I should have protein. I got sick, and then I got to eat meat."

"Paul!" His mother took the meat from him, her face twisting at the smell and sight of the raw burger. "Wash your hands!"

He licked a bit of the blood from his fingers and stalked out of the room.

"So, my initial assessment was the kid was starved for attention and liked being creepy." Goren looked into the backseat of Eames' car where Cora snored on, stuck in a police-issued safety seat. "He tells me about his disease, Celiacs, and his unique interpretation of it. He started on gluten-free diets, and then only steamed vegetables, and then it got worse. He's advanced into it so far he can only have red meat and salt. He had a piece of fruit this morning, he said, and it made him ill. I think his mood swings are related."

"Related enough to make him violent?"

"If he did it to disobey his father and got caught by his father, he might be enraged, sure." Goren rubbed his eyes and then looked back at Cora again. "She's hated by the entire family, and I don't know why."

"It wasn't like she pulled the family apart. From what it seems like, she was Daddy's favorite."

"That can undo some bonds, however."

Eames smiled and tilted her head at Goren. "Come on, parents have to be impartial to their kids, but outsiders can always tell. The one with the better clothes, cars, shoes, purses, and computers. The ones who can pout once and get whatever they want."

"What are we going to do with her, Eames?" He couldn't help but hope for the best with the little child. "A foster home would kill her."

"You could take her home for a few days until a social worker can place her. You could be her foster, so to speak."

"My…my apartment isn't kid-proofed. Besides, if she started crying, or needed something—"

"I'll help."

"No, I can't." He shook his head firmly. "I'm okay with kids, they're okay, but—"

"It'll be a few nights until she can be placed in permanent care. She's a cute kid. Friendly. I know a couple who would love her."

"Good people?"

"Great people. While the work is being done in the lab, we'll kid-proof your house, fill out the foster paperwork, and see which Whittaker to arrest."

"Same knife on both victims, what about ceramic? Did we find the pottery grounds in Hurley?"

"No, but we have a fingernail and enough probable cause to compel for DNA evidence."

"Okay." Goren, against all odds, relaxed. "We've got at least one of them for murder, and the other two as accomplices."

"Right."

"And Cora has a place with you until we find somebody who will take better care of her. I'd say you've been a good cop all around today, Bobby." She smiled at him. "Sweet and idiotic as you can be."

He pursed his lips. "I have a memory like a steel trap, Eames. Don't underestimate."

"Yeah?" She laughed, looking at her car stereo. "We're stopping for coffee."

"Your treat."

"Fine, but only because you're going to have a two-year-old. You'll need all the coffee you can get."

"Well, I can't watch her today—"

"You did your job. Unless Deakins has another case lined up for us—"

"My job's not done until the arrest is made, Alex." He leaned back. "But that lab-work could take all day, even if it's prioritized."

There was a long pause in the conversation. He turned to observe the sleeping child again. "I don't even…I don't even know why I'm doing it."

"You don't have to. You aren't driven up the walls by the kid, and she needs a temporary place."

"Why are you pushing it?" His voice took on an edge, and Eames looked apologetically at him, noticing how he felt he'd been pushed the past few days. She opened her mouth to reply when he cut her off. "She's two years old. I'm not qualified to watch a child her age."

"Oh, calm down!" Eames shifted uncomfortably. "Like you'd let her stick her fingers in electrical sockets and put rusty nails in her mouth." She shifted again, this time glaring at him with her peripheral vision. "Besides, you held my nephew and he didn't scream. Nor did you drop him."

"It's not the fact I'm totally devoid of common sense which forces me to look at this with a different perspective!"

"If you think being bombastic is going to convince me otherwise, think again, buddy!" She stomped the breaks, startling Goren and waking the child. "She loves you like crazy and it'd break her heart to have been taken away from her family by the big, mean cop-man!"

Goren groaned, leaning back and forcing a smile. "Good morning, Princess! Did you have a dream?"

She babbled back happily for a while, and then slipped into a mindless sleep again. At the police plaza, Eames undid the baby cart and handed it to Goren, who manipulated the handle in his hands, staring at the mobile child. The seat, universal in size and weight, was heavy and unbalanced. The little girl, Cora, wriggled in her seat and curled a blanket around her shoulders. He was at wonders she was sleeping this early in the morning. Something must have awakened her the night before.

"So, we will find the fingerprints and determine who placed the knife."

Goren nodded, tucking the baby seat under the hollow in his desk. "For now I had Barek bring the three of them in to answer to a social worker about the child endangerment." He noticed her blank look. "Someone in that house hid a knife in the girl's crib. The boy is creepy as all hell and he knows it. He's bitter about it…"

Eames shook her head and then swept some of her newly grown-out hair off her shoulders. "Black coffee?"

"Gallons." He replied in a shuddery tone. "And make sure it'll scald my tongue."

"Coming right up." She blinked. "Of course, when it's that hot you can't really taste it."

Goren watched her go, and then quickly made a display of panicking. He fell to his knees and peered at the child resting in the car-seat. She was easy enough to get along with, and he could definitely baby-proof his house for a week or so, but he couldn't imagine bringing her to work, even if he asked to be committed to desk work once the final arrests were made. Biting his lip, he rose up to his feet again and lifting his hand to scrape his nails along the back of his neck.

Elusively, a pair of eyes peeked into the room, followed by a lecherous grin. "Bobby-boy!"

Goren's shoulders, tense enough, bunched into a mess of nerves and tendons. He turned, his mind winding up to lash out at the first foul word. "Yes, Logan?"

"I've heard from three reliable sources you've got yourself a potential girlfriend." Logan, fresh from Staten Island, wagged his eyebrows. "Is it true?"

"Three reliable sources, and you come straight to me for information."

"Okay, so I wanted to push your buttons. Tell me!" Logan's smirk never faded.

Goren sighed. "I have no girlfriend. I met a woman at the Back Door. She plays in the band. I got her number."

"Got her number and managed to nab the evildoer within a day of getting the case. Impressive."

Goren sat in his chair and laced his fingernails, resting his hands on his stomach, staring up at Logan coolly. When he didn't blink for a few moments, Logan crumbled, blinked, and sulked off to his side of the bullpen alone. Swiveling in his chair, Goren proceeded in making a few phone calls for rush delivery of lab results, to have paperwork sent up, and a call to Eames to complain about taking Cora again.

"Who's this couple?" He asked when she picked up her phone and barked out her short welcome, "Eames."

She sighed, pleased he was convincing himself slowly. "Friend from college. She and her husband have a pair of twins who are getting older. They want kids and they had to do some fancy fertilization before. They'd rather adopt than do the drugs and the shots again."

"Sounds promising."

"Yes, it does. And Cora will have an Uncle Bobby. They don't live far from here."

"Uncle Bobby?" The word sounded foreign. In fact, to Goren it sounded like one word, and not one in English at that. He contemplated the meaning in German, and found his profound mind had turned off. He could now picture himself up to his elbows in foster kids, more than just a couple of hours of scruff on his face, holding a beer bottle and a plastic badge, and staring at his pregnant wife, who just happened to resemble a hybrid of Alex and Jenny.

"Goren?"

"I don't want to be that cop, Alex."

"What cop?"

"The one who hangs out with other cops, talking about being a cop, and loving being a cop. I mean, I love my job, but I don't want to be that guy at the Christmas party who only talks about his job." He inhaled wildly. "I want to call Jenny."

"Don't have your mid-life crisis over the phone with me! Call her!"

"I can't, not while the investigation—"

"Think about it, Bobby. What does she have to do with the arrest on the Whittaker family? Nothing. If you prove it's the wife, you can maybe use Jenny's statements about her calling Jenny to let her know Whittaker wouldn't be calling her. Maybe her statements about Cora's birth father and the deadbeat who also went missing."

"So…"

"So fill out the foster care paperwork, take Cora home, childproof the house, and get some goddamn sleep." Eames laughed. "But wait for coffee. You'll need it."

"You're talking me into it after talking me out of it." Goren accused warily, reaching up to rub his forehead. "Give it to me straight, Eames."

"We can't hold the Whittaker kids very long. You'll interview them after we figure out who had the knife in the kid's bed. We'll work with trace and the ME to get the knife linked to Joshua Hurley. You'll get your woman and get that little boy some help."

"Alex!"

She sighed heavily. "This is the first time I haven't suspected you of randomly choosing some woman because you wanted to choose some woman. She'll be good for you—liberating in a way. Deakins knows her and she's easy for me to keep an eye on. She obviously likes something about you, and she isn't too straight-forward. She's been shy, especially around me. Knows her place, knows where to go to get you on her side. She's not a bitch and she brushes her hair." Eames inhaled deeply again. "She's your type without being your type. When you kissed her in the bar, you didn't seem to notice anything _but_ her, and if working with you for almost six years hasn't proven to me you notice _everything,_ I wouldn't have cared at all."

Goren let out a soft sigh. "You'll learn, young grasshopper. I have almost trained you perfectly."

"Would you like your hot coffee in your lap, sire?"

He cringed a little. "Aww, that's not funny, Eames."

"I just listed at least a dozen reasons to call that girl." Eames snorted in mild disgust. "I can give you twice as many to never kiss her on duty again, at least until the investigation is over. You said it yourself—love makes people irrational, and that's the point."

He closed his eyes. "A superfluous use of the word 'love' to bolster my ego; shame on you."

"One more bombastic tirade and I'll play the jealous wench. See how far your shy little hippie girl takes it when you turn into that cop who only likes cops and only talks about being a cop."

"Goodbye, Eames."

"Bobby, if you hang—"

He clapped his cell phone shut and stared at it, contemplating the ramifications of his actions. Nothing boiled up inside him, not mirth or fear. Alex would be fine by the time she got back from their coffee spot. His lap would suffer no third degree burns, and he would be just fine.

* * *

"You got the case the day the body was discovered, Goren. You can't expect them to put everything on hold for your lab results. As far as I can tell, they haven't even put in for the fingernail against the compelled DNA samples. The little boy had a convulsion and had to go to the hospital anyway." Deakins shrugged on his coat and blinked uneasily at the tall detective. "Is that a coloring book?"

He looked at the Bugs Bunny coloring book in his hand, and shifted uncomfortably. "Yes."

"For?"

"Long hours." Eames half-shouted from her desk, and then Deakins watched a little girl, her hair glowing blonde in the fluorescent light, duck under Goren's desk, giggling. She peeked from under Goren's desk, and then let out a high-pitched shriek of glee, pouncing up to Goren's leg. She grabbed his pant leg, tugging insistently. He extended the coloring book to her and she darted off, using some crayons Eames had supplied. Goren cleared his throat restlessly.

"Where'd she stay last night?" Deakins asked, recognizing her from the night before.

"With me." He replied apprehensively. "Eames stayed to help. She's talking with the adoption agency about getting her placed. The social workers…"

"They haven't decided yet?"

"No, but once the fingerprints come back, she'll be without family." Goren stood up as straight as he could. "We handed the new case back to homicide after we found a lead. Paperwork okay?"

"Logan and Barek can go out, sure." He stared at the little girl again as she studiously filled in lines with the pink crayon, burbling to herself happily as time went on. "Are you good with kids?"

Goren straightened further. "Better than _some._"

Deakins nodded an affirmation, and exited with a curious look going across his face. Goren, sighing uneasily again, made his way to his desk and sat cautiously in his chair.

Eames was answering her phone, arranging events for the impending regular-hours she was enjoying. Wrinkling her nose, she agreed to some date and time, and hung up, her cheeks swelled with quiet pride.

"Not the doctor."

"Oh yes, the doctor." She fanned her face. "The young, cute, well-spoken doctor with the freckles and rosy cheeks. That doctor, hell yes."

Goren groaned and leaned back in his chair, covering his face. "Doctor Jeremy Pickett! A podiatrist! Foot doctor, Alex!"

"It means he doesn't have a fetish, or he'd have been charged with malpractice already." She sat up very straight, her head tilted in challenge. "Anyway, what does that have to do with anything? Need I remind you—?"

"We have to talk to Danielle about the knife-wounds on Joshua Hurley's body. His family is coming for the body today." Goren gnawed his lip a moment, and then shifted when Cora came to his leg and tried to wrestle her way onto his lap. "It seemed like punishment for Whittaker, but then what for Hurley?" Cora had succeeded, and held her coloring book like a trophy, smiling up at Goren happily.

"Did you ever find out if Joshua Hurley was the one visiting the bar to glare at Whittaker?"

"He was, thanks to the bartender with the good memory. Hurley's roommates reported him missing a while back. They affirmed his license and drug use, as well as tattoo." Goren slid closer to the desk. Cora laid her coloring book on the flat surface and began scribbling away, this time with a green crayon. Reaching up absent-mindedly, he smoothed a cowlick and covered his mouth.

"You really are good with kids, you know?" Eames turned her head and picked up her phone. "But you'd die if you had to do desk-work the rest of your life."

"As a profiler, I'm not supposed to get a lot of field-work." He flexed his arm. "But I look good with a badge and gun. And I intimidate."

"Bobby?" Deakins, still in his coat, preparing for a lunch out, leaned into the room. "Carver says we can't keep the Whittakers much longer."

"The mother. Charge her. The kids can't go home without a guardian. Group-home." He didn't like subjecting the family to such strains, but he knew something evil was lurking beneath the surface, right along with the lack of secrecy. Though they weren't offering the truth, no one seemed all that appalled the knife had been in Cora's bed, nor that Whittaker was dead. At the very least, they seemed peeved by the way things were occurring.

"Abandonment can cause a lot of ill feelings." Goren touched the top of the little girl's head. "Jenny said Whittaker hardly thought of anything other than the studio and the music he planned to make in it. He was leaving his family behind for his dream—the dream he never thought would come true."

"Even though the little brat was in the hospital, he seems like the one most likely to go off the handle and give us some fuel for the other two, doesn't he?" Eames tapped her pen to her chin. "Is there any way you spoil him and give him some other food?"

"He went into convulsions. Hospital found less than half an apple in his stomach." Goren looked at the report Deakins had left him. "Anything other than red meat can kill him. His digestive track will feed on his muscles if it doesn't get the right food, and at this stage of the disease, that's red meat, and—and only red meat."

"They're not all that well off. Get him a filet mignon."

"He's not the type to sway to one side because of food." Goren replied in a slow tone. "He likes scaring people with his disease, with his view on it. I'll bet he's never heard of anything more horrendous. I'll show him photos of the crime scene. Of other crime scenes. Tell him _my_ history. Ask him about World War II, the concentration camps." He smiled at Cora's pink-and-green bugs bunny chewing on the bright blue carrot. "We'll see who the tough guy is."

Carver entered the building, his eyes peering at Eames and Goren through his glasses, deciding against asking about the child on Goren's lap, still working on her Bugs Bunny coloring book with the five crayons Eames had found salvaged after her nephew's last visit.  
"Do you have any clue who you're charging yet?" Carver sat on the edge of Eames' desk, accepting a look from Goren with a slight sigh. "Any idea at all?"

"The more I delve into the family, the less I know. I know it's them, though." Goren shifted awkwardly in his chair, and then leaned and spoke lightly into Cora's ear. "Are you hungry? I thought I heard a tummy grumble."

"It yers."

"Mine? Well, would you like to share a muffin with me?" He stood up, hoisting her onto his hip. "I know just the place to get a princess a muffin. Whaddaya say?"

"'Kay!" She sang out and lifted her finger, inserting it into her mouth with a coy smile. She tucked her cheek against Goren's collar bone, and giggled as he adjusted her makeshift coat and brushed her hair off her face again. He jiggled her a little and shrugged on his coat. The brisk weather outside warned him he might have to step up with the cold-prevention. There was no telling how long the lab tests and interrogation would take, even if the Whittakers' files got "misplaced" for a few days.

Without a word, he patted his pocket to make sure he had his wallet, took his cell phone, and left. Eames stared at his abandoned, wide-open portfolio. His notes, his innermost suspicions, the files he'd been reading, and all the messy marks he'd made in the margins were there, laid wide open for the world to see. As soon as he was gone, Carver took his chair and looked into the paperwork.

"This doesn't make any sense." He sighed, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes carefully. "He writes fragments."

"They make sense to him, okay?" Eames defended, frowning into her own paperwork. "He's normally the only person reading them—why should they make sense to everyone else?"

"'Aversion to blood. Not conclusive but suspicious. Indicates solicitation. Cover-up. Her own abandonment of her own family of her own values. Cora is the Princess of the house.'"

Eames blinked and reached over the median of their desks, closing Goren's portfolio gently. "He's very touchy about his notes. They mean something to him, and he'll explain them later."

"Later when he's gotten that little girl a muffin and told her how pretty she looks?" Carver smiled a little, craning his neck to look at the door in case the detective had already returned. "He's unusually cooperative with her."

"She's unusually cooperative with him. Bobby's not a roll-in-the-grass kind of guy, at least as I see him. He's pretty quiet and introspective. Loves to think and read. Then he gets his grips on some low-life and he starts talking, and you wouldn't guess he had to think himself through four days straight to get there and get that confession." Eames took a deep gulp of her morning coffee. "He meets that little girl, and he was just Acting. Just putting on The Act for Mrs. Whittaker, and she ate him up. To be good with kids you have to like them, on some level."

"She likes him, of course." Carver indicated the fantasy-inspired Bugs Bunny collage littered throughout his paperwork.

"She's a very creative little girl. She loves painting and coloring. You know Bobby—he eats up that artistic stuff." She twisted a crime scene photo around and held her arm up, seeing the bridge, but not being able to get there herself. "There's something in the trajectory here."

Carver leaned back in Goren's chair. "Logan and Barek came in the other day to check on their latest conviction. I hear Goren has a girl."

"Besides Cora Whittaker? Yeah, she gave him her number." Eames carefully omitted the part where they'd swapped spit, biting her tongue.

"Meaning what, do you think?"

"Somebody besides me can put up with Robert Goren."

"And other than that?"

"She knew something about the case. He had to talk to her and get some information. Now he's terrified to make a move either way because he enjoys her company but he questions his ethics in asking her out now, while the investigation is pending."

Carver looked at his own files and documents. "With the warrant served, with the knife fingerprints, if I do prosecute, I won't need her testimony. You can tell him, from me, she won't be needed in questioning. The only witness I plan to put on the stand is the bartender the evening before Aaron Whittaker went missing. He claims to have heard Mr. and Mrs. Whittaker having an argument. One of many, he said."

"I can't picture him out on a date." Eames said in a distracted voice. "He's a good dancer. I suppose he'd play to his strong suits. A museum and a fancy dinner. Back to his place for some surfing on the History Channel and Discovery Channel."

"Exciting."

"To him it's domestic but perfect." Eames sat back and sighed, throwing her pen to the desktop. "It's monopolizing his mind, Carver. He is getting all this done, but he's getting increasingly indecisive. He's not open to interpretation and he couldn't even decide to take Cora in or not. At first he seemed pleased with it, then horrified, and I had to force her into his apartment last night and explain to him how to change a diaper…"

Carver's eyebrows rose slightly. "And you think it's the woman?"

Eames leaned forward on her desk at least, resting her cheek in her hand, distorting her face. "I know it is. From what I learned from him about body language, he's on-edge, and distracted, and thinking about her a lot."

"Is it affecting his work at all?"

"He refused to admit she might have valuable information to the proceedings of the case." Eames squeezed out the fact and felt a little guilty of betraying this hidden, secret part of her partner to Carver.

"But then she didn't."

"No, but she did help provide the timeline. And she affirmed his suspicions the wife was the perpetrator."

"Maybe his intuition is in-tune and he's feeling her." Carver shrugged, smiling just a little. "Logan was thrilled to tell me about the possibility of Goren having someone."

"As powerful and intimidating as he can be in the interrogation room, it would kill him to be slapped with any rejection or criticism, especially from that girl." Eames shook her head, and reached for her pen again.


	5. Fetishism

_Author's Note:_ Wow, this has to be the most attention I've ever gotten on a single story I've written. True, I have many more plot twists to anger anyone who has thusfar enjoyed the tale, but we aren't there yet.

To address some reviews now...

Sorry, my plans are not to turn this into a Bobby/Alex love-fest. I love reading them, and I feel like I could write one, but I have more fun inventing characters Dick Wolf doesn't own.

To all of you who correct me on grammar and such, thank you, thank you, and thank you! What can I say? The little things make me happy.

Keep reviewing! Makes me happy!

* * *

Goren reached the door of a bakery he knew from former early-morning stake-outs years back while he was with Narcotics. There were quite a few other people waiting for morning croissants and muffins, and he knew he wasn't going to get privilege because he was carrying an impatient toddler. Reaching into his pocket for his badge, he removed it and held it up to Cora, whose tiny eyes lit up.

"Here, will you hold this for me? It's very important and I can't lose it. I want you to keep it safe for me, okay?" He figured the distraction would keep her both busy and entertained.

Her blonde head bobbed up and down in pleasure and confirmation. She clutched the badge to her chest suspiciously, as if expecting someone to try to extract it from her tiny fingers. Curling herself into his collar bone again, she yawned and made a small noise of disagreement. Goren stood behind two college girls, his eyes trained on the coffee cups. He'd left his hot coffee on his desk. He regretted that, but he'd been in a hurry. He'd even left his portfolio open. Gritting his teeth, he waited patiently, listening to the dim radio.

Abruptly the line shortened and he found himself next as soon as the college student got her morning espresso and fat-free muffin. He was closer to the radio dials. A song came on and the woman working the espresso ditched her foamy mess to turn the dials up. The Rolling Stones' hit "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" was now blaring. The college girls giggled as the man with the gloves reached around in the bakery portion of the counter for their breakfast. He smiled back, and then noticed the little girl playing with the badge, and the well-dressed, bored looking man holding her.

"Here you go." He reached for the dials, and then gave up, staring defiantly at the man and his young girl. "Can I help you?"

"Blueberry muffin." Goren looked at the rest of the items spread in the warmly lit glass case. "Banana nut bread, if you have enough."

As he wrapped the goods and put them in a bag, Goren reached into his pocket for his wallet. He was peeling through the bills, adding up tax and tip in his head, aware he was losing Cora's attention, and then he heard a second Rolling Stones tune come up over the stereo. In the back, two women were singing in perfect harmony, though loudly and having too much fun to sound really good. Craning his neck, Goren felt the girl in his arms squirm. There was a shriek.

"Shit! Brock! Brock!"

Goren stared as the man who had put the bread and muffin into a bag uneasily left the line at the door to peer into the kitchen. "What, Kara?"

"Jenny ripped her shirt." There was a giggle. "I found this in your office. Can she wear it?"

"Sure." The man waved his arm and returned to the register.

"You play music at the Back Door now and then?" Goren asked conversationally, shifting Cora up a little higher on his hip.

The man, Brock, looked out of the register keys. "Yeah. With my band or with Jenny."

"The same Jenny who just ripped her shirt?"

"Yeah. You know her?" Brock took the ten dollar bill Goren held out to him and made change. Goren dropped the coins and a dollar bill into the tip jar, pocketing the rest.

"You could say that. We've spoken a couple of times."

"Well, hey, you should come see us perform tonight. It's just me and her tonight. We're doing originals for once." The man's eyes lit up. "She'd love to have a familiar audience. She's had a rough week."

"We'll see." Goren looked at Cora, who had started trying to pull his badge apart from the leather it was affixed to. "I've got to find someone to watch this one."

"Hey, cute kid." Brock smiled. "She must take after her mother, though?"

"She's not mine." Goren smiled back. "I'm just watching her for her parents. They're in trouble and can't take care of her. She takes after her mother though, yes."

Brock's smile turned up a notch. "See you there, eventually."

"Eventually." Goren agreed, and left the bakery, feeling a little swell of disappointment and excitement. He hadn't directly run into Jenny, in fact he'd almost done that exact thing, but not quite. He'd been invited to see the show tonight, and he'd avoided any weird questions about his "daughter" later on.

"Thank you!" He took his badge from Cora and put it into his pocket. "Ready for some blueberry?" Her tiny stomach gurgled and he put her down on the edge of a bench, kneeling in front of her carefully. Unwrapping the muffin, he tore a small bite-sized piece off and held it up. Cora opened her mouth, and Goren shoved it in, wondering why she didn't take herself. She took the next piece herself, but had left it up to him to give her the first bite, ensuring her blame on him would be concrete if she didn't enjoy it. The muffin, as was the trend, was enormous, but she ate almost the entire thing sitting on the bench, giggling and chewing, swinging her feet and listening to Goren's vocabulary. She would attempt to repeat a word he'd say, and the result was amusing.

"C'mon, we better get back to Alex, huh?" He took her hand and she pulled back on it, her forehead wrinkled in a slight pout. She pointed to a small park across the way and Goren let out a slight sigh.

"All right, but if anyone asks, we were just making sure they were up to city ordinance."

"Ordibants."

"Exactly." He hefted her to his shoulders and bounced her to the swings, setting her down and looking around. He was aware he was wearing a long coat and surrounded by children and their mothers. There was, on that day, not a single father on the premises. He felt like a pedophile, except he was in charge of the child. Setting her in a harness swing, he gently pushed her higher and higher until she squealed with glee. The motions of pushing her were easy to make, and he lost himself in thought for a while until he felt his cell phone vibrating in his pocket. Taking a step back, he continued to push her with one hand, answering the phone with his free hand.

"Goren."

"Where are you? Deakins is back already. You've been gone—"

"Shit, I wasn't watching the clock." He slowly put an end to Cora's ride. "I'm really awful at this, aren't I?" He laughed awkwardly. "I can be there in a few minutes. We're at the park down by the bakery."

"She drag you in?"

"Wouldn't go back without a ride on the swings." He lifted the protesting girl out of the swing and nestled her back against his hip. "It's me and a bunch of mother figures."

"You're doing great, Bobby."

He wrinkled his nose. "I'll be right back."

"Okay. Hurry. Deakins is making a personal request for those fingerprints and DNA. Also, the Whittaker boy is back in detention. You can interrogate him for motive."

"Good."

"Good." She hung up and Goren followed suit, looking at the pouted lips of the little girl.

"I'm no good when you start crying." He said softly, as if explaining it to himself. "So please, wait until we can find Alex. She'd love to watch you for a while."

Cora's face scrunched and she started to wail. Trying not to panic, he carried her to a bench and put her down, straightening her coat and hair, trying to look less disheveled himself. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself for facing her tears head-on.

A figure squatted beside his kneeling form and two hands reached forward, tickling the little girl.

"What's with the tears, Giggly-Face?" The fingers prodded the tiny belly again and Cora sat up, her eyes alight with some forbidden fruit. She reached up and hugged the woman who, after a moment of laughing, pried her away.

"There's a smile!"

Goren leaned back, no surprise on his face. "Jenny."

She turned, smiling at him from behind a ruff of faux fur on the trim of her coat's hood. "This little one used to come in with Daddy all the time. Why do you have her?"

"Nobody is capable of taking care of her at this moment in time." He realized how it sounded when he regurgitated a line he'd been rehearsed in saying. "I volunteered. When social workers are comfortable putting her up for adoption, my partner knows a couple who have been looking for a girl her age. She likes me so I thought…just a while, take care of her, y'know?"

"That's sweet of you." Jenny smiled and nudged his shoulder. "I saw you with her on the swings. You're pretty good with kids, huh?"

"Some of them." He admitted and smiled, dragging his fingers across the bench Cora was seated on. "I don't…my partner is expecting me. I'm not so good when she starts—the crying isn't so easy to deal…with."

"Oh! Okay." Jenny rocked back to her heels. "Any progress with the case, then?"

"She has no parents or suitable baby-sitters at home." He replied in a half-evasive way.

Jenny nodded, her jaw tight. "That's good."

"Jenny, do you know why Mrs. Whittaker might have wanted to kill her husband?"

"They were married because she was pregnant with Lucy. He was a daydreamer. Idealistic, lovely man." Jenny's lips turned down in a half-pout. "She was a realist. She always had the steady job, too, until Lucy was born. Then she started to stay home and do nothing. Even when Lucy was going to kindergarten all day, Aaron said she'd just stay home and gossip. He had to get a real job and give up his idea of ever owning a studio."

"So, she was jealous he was finally getting his dream?" Goren frowned.

"No, I think…she was showing him she didn't get her dream so he shouldn't get his either. She got stuck with three kids while he finally got a chance to do what he wanted. They left each other and their poor kids, they got caught in the middle."

"What do you know of the son? Paul?"

Jenny's eyes squinted a little. "Not much. They went hunting every now and then, while in season. He loves video games and hard rock music. If they had more money, Aaron always said it was worth a shot to put him into counseling."

"Why's that?"

"I'm not sure. Aaron didn't talk about it a lot." Jenny started walking along side him while Cora, playing with Goren's hair, burbled and sang a nonsense song. "He never brought _him_ to the club to see us perform."

Goren nodded, mulling it all over. He had fuel for both Paul and Mrs. Whittaker's interrogation, one of which was pending that afternoon. He nodded to himself again, amusing Cora greatly as she tried to catch his moving chin. When she grabbed it, he made to nibble on her fingers and she burrowed herself into the safety of his coat, giggling.

"We're expecting some evidence to come in late tonight or early tomorrow." Goren cleared his throat and felt his momentary grace fail him. "Do you—show?"

"Tomorrow night?" Jenny's smile wasn't muted at all as she looked at him. "It's a Saturday night. I have an early evening show. It ends at eight. They want karaoke for the drunks ready by nine."

"If I were to, hypothetically…" He trailed off, sending her a falsely confident smirk.

"I'm listening." She smiled back.

"Pick you up just as your set ended, you'd avoid clean-up, buying rounds, and we'd have a reasonable time to eat dinner."

"Now that you mention it, yeah." She reached over and pinched Cora's little ankle, causing gales of laughter to billow from Goren's coat. "That sounds nice, actually."

"Okay."

"It's a date." She encouraged, and smiled when Goren blushed slightly and looked above her head, trying not to beam with pride. "So it is."

"Try to see some of the show. Brock will be disappointed if he thinks he didn't do me a favor asking you to show." She nudged his arm again, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Besides, it's easier for me to sing when I know the audience. That's why I loved it when Aaron brought crowds."

"All right. I'll try to be a little early." He felt a warm pit in his stomach start to throb outward as if he'd swallowed a whole bottle of wine in one gulp. The hot feeling raced up his chest like wildfire right to his throat.

Jenny leaned up against his arm, kissed his cheek, and pinched Cora's ankle again. "Seeya, kiddo!"

Goren watched her walk back toward the bakery. She hopped, as she neared the playground, onto a see-saw, and balanced, her arms thrown wide, across to the fulcrum, swinging down so she could dismount, and then did a cartwheel, her hair spraying into the crisp air. Goren released a light sigh. Cora echoed, almost mocking him.

"Hey, you. I get enough from Eames." He poked her nose.

"Aww, begoven!"

"Very cute, saying things I don't understand." He sighed, shoved the door open to the plaza, and accepted all the accusatory stares as he made his way to the elevator and punched the "up" button.

* * *

"You wanna go see the band at that bar tonight?" Eames asked Barek as she stalked through the other side of the bullpen.

"Well, yeah, but I can't tonight. Logan just got called out for a new case. I'm just now getting the page." She rolled her eyes and shrugged. "I dunno if I'll be able to make it. Maybe tomorrow."

"I'll ask Goren if they're playing tomorrow, too. He oughtta know." She prepared herself for the interrogation.

Goren appeared from the elevator, yawning to himself. His eyes opened and he looked alert, but she could see he was contemplating the worst possible scenario. He picked up his portfolio and dropped Cora into his chair, propping her against the desk. She curled into his coat as he draped it over the back of the chair and zonked asleep. After a moment, he stared as Deakins gave him a nod from the hallway near the interrogation rooms. Loosening his tie, he undid the top button and rolled his sleeves back, ditching his suit jacket too. He put his badge in front of Cora and prepared a few more coloring books and crayons for her if she woke up. Confidence she wouldn't be able to wriggle her way free, he extended an elbow to Eames, who took the appendage and marched with him, grim-faced, to the Whittaker boy.

Eames noticed the change come over Goren as soon as he entered the boy's lair. He was gruff, and his shoulders were back so far he almost stood like an army private. His army training gave him a stone-cold face. He scraped one of the chairs across the floor and straddled it, staring over the back of it at Paul Whittaker like a predator sizing up his prey.

The boy looked at him, his arms folded, his skin pale with sickness. He had a stain on his upper lip like his nose had been bleeding.

"When'd your hunting knife end up in your little sister's bedroom, Paul?" Goren leaned away, tucking his hands behind his head, lacing his fingers.

"I dunno." The boy replied, blinking heavily. "I noticed it there Wednesday morning, after Lucy told Mom she saw police cars outside the bathrooms in Central Park."

"Do you know who put it there?" Eames asked, sitting on the edge of the table, staring at him insistently.

"Cora hides stuff in there all the time. But she just put it under the bed. It was in her drawer the day I saw it." He rested his elbow on the table, and Goren shoved the table away. The boy's eyes, before relaxed, went to anxious very quickly.

"How come your mother isn't here, huh?" Goren tilted his head, frowning.

The boy's eyes squinted. "'Cause I don't need her. I don't need my old lady."

"Not even to remind you to wash your hands before dinner? Or that you can't eat fruit without making a trip to the hospital? A trip they can't afford?"

"I don't need her just like she don't need me." Paul rephrased his response, and folded his arms. "And anyway, she'd just blame it all on me because I cut him."

"When'd you cut him?" Eames asked.

"After Lucy hit him with my vase." Paul's eyes lowered and he observed the ground. "She told him about Louie, who came into her room looking for the bathroom the night before. She said Dad had let him in because he was going broke even though he had just won money, and they got in a fight. The eggs started to burn, and Mom handed her the vase full of flowers." Paul's lips turned up in a smile. "Lucy nailed him one. He fell over the kitchen counter. He started to smile. She tried to conk him before, but she's not strong enough. I cut him then." Paul made the motion of pulling a knife out of his pocket and jabbing upward, which was more professional when the attack was supposed to be surprised. "He started bleeding. Mom took the knife from me. She was screaming about the blood on the floor."

"That's what she was screaming about? Blood?"

"Dad started to gurgle." Paul folded his legs up on the chair. "And my stomach got all tight. I was hungry. I got some hamburger and…"

"Did your mom take it from you?"

"My sister took it away and said I was sick, taking that raw meat out when dad's face was cut open like that. It was bleeding all over and making them both sick. It made me hungry." Paul's face turned sheepish. "So I cut him again to show them it wasn't a big deal. And then Lucy did. And then Mom took the knife away and took him away. To the hospital she said."

"Only then what?" Goren pressed, leaning close so Paul couldn't retreat away.

"Only Lucy said we killed him so we cleaned up. Mom came home and said she left him in the bathroom…and Josh came to visit Cora. But Cora doesn't like him. Mom still had my knife. She caught him in the mouth." He indicated the corner of the mouth. "Cut him open. His smile was ear to ear."

Eames' expression turned down in distaste.

"Did you plan on killing your father?"

"I didn't even know he was dead, man." Paul curled his lip. "I wanted him to stop pretending like all our family problems were going to go away if we talked them away. He was going to drop us off at school and go onto his _real_ life."

"Real life?"

"Yeah, with the singer. He worshipped her. He wanted to make her famous." Paul's eyes turned stormy. "And Lucy thought everyone at school thought she was _so_ ugly—nobody at school asks her out. She started pretending Dad's friends were hitting on her. Dad knew it was a lie. She got mad he wasn't assuring her she was pretty to the boys at school. She…we _all…_"

"Did he ever reprimand you for eating the…forbidden fruit?" Goren smiled his crooked smile and scooted closer to Paul, leaning forward against the back of the chair he straddled.

"Sure, especially when I had to go to the hospital." Paul's face turned mocking. "He said I could kill myself, or at least cheat myself out of a college education if they had to keep paying for my bills."

"How'd that make you feel?"

"Angry."

"No denial in that?"

"No, man. I was angry. His family gave it to me. They caught it in my uncle and he died. I get it and I'm my dead uncle, reincarnate. They have to keep me alive." Paul's mature vocabulary echoed around the concrete room. "I just handed you three murderers. What else do you want?"

"You didn't cut him, Paul." Goren sighed and rubbed his face. "And your Mom didn't take him to the bathroom. It was you. And your sister. Your mother was leaving you just like your dad, and you and your sister couldn't handle it. Cora was too young to be upset, so you and Lucy made a pact. You killed your father and Cora's father, and if we hadn't shown up to collect you and make you pay, you would have killed your mother."

"No, I love my mom—"

"No, you blame your mother for letting your father walk away." He pointed at Paul happily. "You blame her for walking away with Cora. What made her so special right? Your father was the one coming into money. How come _your_ father favored _his_ daughter? How come everyone loved her so much more?"

"That's a lie. My mother didn't favor her—"

"Oh, bullshit. Tell me you didn't see how she sheltered the poor thing. She only turned her back on her when she suspected you two killed your father. And she tried to _protect_ you, but she didn't do her job, now did she?" Goren leaned within an inch of the boys face. "I caught you. I have you right here and I have you for murder."

"I didn't _do_ it!"

"No, you did do it. You helped your sister kill him."

"No, I didn't!"

"And why wouldn't you? He made you grow up! He made you take responsibility for your actions! He made you feel a hundred years old because you are eleven years old and you can't participate in high-activity sports because you eat nothing but protein." He indicated the scrawny upper arms. "You aren't strong enough to play sports because of him. He protected you so much you grew frail. You grew out of _favor,_ and when you realized it, you helped Lucy kill him. You took advantage of her delusion—"

"She was _convinced_ those idiots were trying to touch her! She was _convinced_ Dad wasn't going to do anything about it, and she hit him. She asked me for my knife and she _cut_ him!" Paul exhaled, twin tears dripping down his face. He shook his head as if fending off the memories. "And she said the blood smelled good, and I got hungry and she called me a freak. She said I was a freak because—the smell…"

Eames' face was turning green with the thought.

"Did it give you butterflies? Make your stomach tight?" Goren's head tilted further. "Did you feel too big for you body, Paul?"

"She called me a _freak._" Paul whispered. "Because she killed Dad and I smelled his blood and it made me hungry."

"Did you want to do something about it? Pay him back for everything he did to you and your sister? And your mother?"

"We called Josh to tell him Cora broke her arm and Mom wasn't home." Paul's nose started bleeding. The trail rested on his upper lip while he spoke, his eyes boring into Goren's. "When he showed up, Lucy did the same thing to him." Paul's tongue lapped out and caught the stream of blood. The smear left was identical to the one Eames had first noticed when they walked in. The bleeding seemed to have stopped.

"Why did you switch their licenses?"

"Because somebody was going to think we cared about him being dead. We just wanted it to be a senseless murder and move on. "Paul smiled and leaned back into his chair, his arms hugging his knees to his chest.

"Did you help your sister?" Goren emphasized every word.

"I could care less about her." Paul spat contemptuously. "She was so wrapped in being paranoid about boys she would have let _me_ into her bedroom to catch her naked."

Without a word, Goren stood up and exited. As soon as Eames exited and the door shut, he turned around and caught her before she could storm past him.

"Alex, don't." He felt her struggling and then pushed her into the observation room with Deakins and Carver. She resisted more violently, and then went limp, her face pale and tinged with green.

"He almost says it, but I think he's afraid of being a freak. I think he drank their blood, Bobby."

"It would explain his taste for it now." Goren replied in a curious tone and watched the boy rub at his upper lip and wipe his fingers on his prison-issued clothes, which were too big for his lanky form.

Eames, covering her eyes, ventured a question. "He…did he do it, Bobby?"

"Sister." Goren nodded. "But he definitely helped."

"How, you think?"

"Body disposal. The sister could drive." He turned to Deakins. "Where's Carver? We can get a warrant for the car? It wasn't specified in the original warrant."

"I'll put a few phone calls through and sent some units out." Deakins started towards the door. "What are we looking for?"

"Blood, hair—from either of the victims." Eames stood up, composed entirely, and with a grim but dirty look on her face. "And a cheese grater."

Deakins' slight smile was appreciated in the stuffy observation room. In the actual interrogation room, Paul had taken to leaning his head back, his mouth slightly agape.

"What's he doing?"

"You put your head back to stop a bloody nose. Only problem is you have to…swallow."

Eames turned her back on the boy, her scowl deepening. "I can't wait to shut this case. There should be limits to creepiness."

Goren stared into the interrogation room. "He can't help it, Eames. It's all he can eat—blood and meat. And his father forced it on him by depriving him of the vegetables he was eating before."

"So, what?" Eames rounded on Goren, her face severe. "He drinks the old man's blood to show him how proud he's making him?"

"You…used too many pronouns."

She threw her hands in the air with exasperation. "Focus, Bobby! We have a vampire in there submitting to _you_ and you're in here, arguing with me over my grammar!"

"No, he's not a vampire entirely. The tight feeling in his stomach." Goren's face twitched and Eames recognized a slight show of compassion. "He admitted to grossing his sister out when his stomach grumbled. The tightness, the way he blushed when he spoke about it…"

"So, he's not getting nutritional goods from the perversion?" Eames asked, her facetious tone grating into Goren's ear. "Speak in whole sentences, Bobby."

Goren closed his eyes, rounding his shoulders a little. "It stopped being about food. Our boy has a problem here." He placed his palm against the glass, squinting to watch the boy swallowing another gush of blood. "He was aroused by the smell and sight of blood."

"He has a blood fetish? He's eleven years old!"

"Imagine…his first erection at the sight of his father's dead body." Goren cracked a crooked smile. "It's no wonder Cora didn't realize he'd be a little off. I'll bet he was a doting brother before."

"I can't think of many other things that would cause such a complete 180-degree turn." Eames shuddered visibly. "What happened, do you think? Besides his lapse in sanity?"

Goren's head snapped over to her and he squinted a little. "He didn't decide to like it. He's disturbed by it. He isn't—he doesn't enjoy being like this. The effort to scare us is his way of…he's terrified of himself."

"He wouldn't be so creepy if he weren't terrified of himself, is that what you're saying?" Eames shook her head. "The boy is turned on by blood. His father's blood, his mother's lover's blood—his _mother's_ blood if we hadn't caught—"

"But he didn't kill them." Goren repeated the fact in slow tones, his eyes drilling into Eames. Slowly his head tilted to one side. "Lucy was the one with the violent tendencies—"

"She was paranoid." Eames translated, staring back at Goren, her arms folded over her chest. "Is that what you mean?"

"She didn't think anyone was conspiring against her. She didn't feel safe." Goren's lips pulled off his teeth, and Eames felt herself shrink a little as he stood up taller. "Forgive me if I am misunderstanding you, Eames, but are you telling me it's these kids' faults they were put under such…_extraordinary_ pressure that they turned on the hands which caused them the harm? Because if you are, you are mistaken. Genetics alone can drive you—me…"

"Don't have sympathy on them just yet." Eames replied in a soft voice. "Lucy Whittaker may have been scared, but she had no right to bludgeon her father to death."

"Because the right for her to feel threatened comes directly from…these documents—this place she didn't want to be in, this life she didn't want—"

"Don't take her side because _I_ pissed you off, Bobby!"

"No one is crazy because they want to be!" He shouted, banging his hand on the glass. Paul jerked his head up, staring, his mouth still open. Goren continued. "He's _sick_, Eames! It's unfortunate, but it's not his _fault_ it happened."

"Christ, I hope Jenny knows what she's in for." Eames snapped, storming towards the door. "You owe it to her." She closed the door behind her.

Goren released a held breath and ran his fingers through his hair, exhaling again through his nose, feeling his heart slow at last. The anger started to ebb away, as it always did when he didn't fully explode and let his anger control him. Closing his eyes, he removed his palm from the two-way mirror again, and returned to the boy.

When he closed the door and straddled his chair, he rested his chin on the back of his hands, staring desolately over the tops of his fingers.

The boy sniffed hard, stemming the flow of blood for the last time. "Why did you come back?"

"Because it occurred to me," Goren stretched his legs delicately, "you may think you're a freak."

Paul laughed, his eyes jumping to his feet. "Yeah? What's new?"

"You're not."

"What?" That gained his attention again.

Goren smiled weakly, feeling his heart finally slow to a normal pace. "You're not a freak because of the blood, because of the disease, or because of your sister."

"I saw my old man die." Paul replied weakly, his eyes focused on his feet again. "Tell me that doesn't mess you up inside."

"Sure, it messes you up, but it doesn't make you a freak. You took advantage of her for revenge, but she took advantage of your support to…kill, not revenge. You never would have felt so alienated if she hadn't pointed out the smell. The taste."

Paul shifted, meeting Goren's eyes. "Why are you being so nice now, man?"

Goren leaned back, observing his fingers as he tapped them along the back of the chair. "I have a family history of schizophrenia. I know the meaning of crazy. I visit my mother sometimes." He swallowed a difficult lump and continued. "She's really sick. She can't…function outside supervision."

Paul's eyes lingered on Goren's face, and then strayed to his fingers, which were still tapping on the chair. "She isn't like me."

"No, but in some ways you're better off. Someday, when you've gotten help and you've gotten treatment for your tummy issues," Goren leaned back onto the table, his eyes focused on Paul, "you'll be able to return to normal life. No institution for you. Sounds nice, doesn't it?"

"They say a guilty conscience gets you out of some things, as a minor." The boy cautiously opened himself a little more and rested his feet on the ground again, his arms still curled around each other on his stomach.

Goren pushed the tape recorder towards the boy, his eyes pleading for more of the same. "How did you help her? Tell me exactly what happened."


	6. Fixation

_Author's Note: _Hey y'all! Thanks for all the reviews, as usual. Things may seem like they're winding down, but trust me...there's more to come which I hope keeps you interested. I love feedback, so please don't be shy. School is almost out for me, so hopefully I won't fall behind as I inevitably do when I start up stuff like this...here's to keeping my fingers crossed. (It's hard to type. Maybe I'll stop.)

* * *

"Bobby, damnit! Open the door!" Eames pounded one more time, stomping her foot on the hollow floor of the hallway. The door of Bobby's apartment was locked tight, the numbers nailed to the surface hanging slightly crooked again. She wondered how he hadn't found time to fix them—it drove him crazy when the six flipped over like a nine.

Sighing, she knocked again. "I brought you an 'I'm sorry' gift! If you're lucky I won't eat it while you keep me waiting."

The door jerked inward. He stood, his face covered in tiny handprints of red and blue. Wiping at his cheek with a paper towel, he eyed Alex suspiciously.

"Well, I'll just stand in the hall." She tilted her head, squinting.

He pointed over his shoulder. "I…she made a mess of—painting. I bought brushes and she—"

"May I come in, Bobby?" Alex smiled and held up a small container of her breakfast leftovers. "Spanish Omelet."

Bobby's eyes widened. "Did you bring me some? Come right in!" He closed the door behind her, wiping his cheek again. "I resolved not to shower until I get rid of her. My hair never stays clean anyway."

Alex smiled, noticing the flecks of green and yellow staining the slight gray tinges around his temples. Running his fingers through his hair, he led her around the corner of the entryway to the kitchen where Cora was spread out on her stomach surrounded in paints and brushes and a real canvas, which she was covering with thin but wispy swirls of pinks and blues.

"We're designing a mural for the sitting room. Eventually it'll go over my fireplace when I move into that mansion I've been looking at—" He coughed when she slapped him in the gut. "Hey, careful! This is a precious set of organs—they deliver the criminal, Alex!"

Rolling her eyes, Alex took a heavy seat in a kitchen chair. "It couldn't possibly be your impossibly high IQ and your attention to detail, or my stubbornness?"

Bobby cracked a smile and bent, arranging the paint tubs carefully. "I'd like to think it's just the gut."

"So, what are you up to on this fine morning?"

"My precious day off while Logan and Barek slave away on our dropped case?" Bobby sounded delighted. "It's World War II week on the History Channel. I've been educating the little miss here on nazi warfare."

Cora looked up, a smile on her face. "Hitler!"

"Bravo!" Bobby clapped and knelt beside her. "But I didn't just tell you names."

"Treats from Verzy?"

"Close enough." He looked up to Alex. "Treaty of Versailles. She's close enough."

Alex rested her chin her hand while Bobby lifted himself into a nearby chair and took a fork from his place setting and picked through her Styrofoam container. She smiled and shook her head, looking down at the little girl smearing orange into the pink and green she'd already spattered over. She tilted her head, moved, and painted more. Alex's heart thudded.

"Two days and she's acting like you."

Bobby glanced at her as she tilted her head again and dotted some yellow handprints onto the far corner of the canvas.

"I…euhhh…"

"We're expecting a call any second now about those fingerprints. Are you planning to go in to personally see to it Paul doesn't get dragged into the murder?"

"He was an accomplice—I can't even cut it as defenseless. He helped his sister bait Joshua Hurley into coming over. He stood by and watched her kill two men, and helped her dispose of the bodies." Bobby watched Cora slap her bare foot into the black paint and put a single footprint in the middle of the canvas. She stood, stomping the paint off onto the newspaper tarp he'd laid out for her.

"Deakins said you two had a heart-to-heart."

"Nothing brings two crazies together like talking about being crazy." He replied softly.

Alex wriggled her lips a little and then reached over, touching Bobby's wrist. "You're not crazy. It's family history, it's genetics, and you're brilliant despite the stress it puts you under. It hit this kid. He's feeling it. He can tell something's not right. Granted, this awareness gives him the ability to rehabilitate, but he's still…not well, Bobby."

"Who is?" He knew better than to ask that rhetorical question, but he couldn't resist. He had now challenged her to name one person she didn't think had at least one mental defect.

"Bobby…"

Cora's head snapped up. Her lower lip pouted. "Bah-ee, my hands need scub."

Standing, Bobby cleared his throat and bent, reaching for her. "Please and thank you, Miss Cora. You'll make a mess of Alex if you don't wash up. So, thank you and a please."

"Use the pink one."

"Will do." She heard the water in his bathroom started to run, and Cora giggled. "No!"

"Ja, frauline. Das es gut!"

She giggled louder and the water turned off.

"Squeaky?"

"Clean!"

Alex smiled and took a bite of her leftovers, replacing the fork. "Don't get too attached."

"Well, you said I could visit." He returned and put her down in his chair. She began eating his breakfast while he gathered up her newspaper tarp and canvas, which he laid out on a nearby desk to dry. She saw his portfolio was still on top of his coat, which was piled in a chair. The house was abnormally tidy and uncluttered. There were some added things—a mess of sheets on the couch surrounded with pillows as a makeshift crib, and coloring books and crayons. The TV was showing a documentary on an attempt to kill Hitler sometime before World War II exploded into a worldwide scramble for safety from persecution. Alex knew this was a typical day off for Bobby and wondered why he hadn't invited Lewis over, or why he wasn't out tracking Jenny down.

"How are things going along with Jenny?" Alex asked and smiled when he fetched a second fork to take at least a few bits of the breakfast before Cora at it all. He stood, holding the fork full of food, his face oddly neutral.

"Great."

"Great? Wow. Sounds mighty fine, Bobby."

"Bah-ee." Cora echoed and smiled through a mouth full of food.

"Have a plan for the first date?" Alex asked, hoping to solicit either a reaction, or some information.

"Dinner."

"Anywhere special?"

He took a bite and smiled at her. "Berculli's."

"Upscale!"

"I know someone who slept with one of the owner's ex-wives. He swore if I didn't get my ass kicked at the front door, I'd have a good table reserved for me." Bobby flexed a bicep. "I thought I'd bring my badge and my bad attitude."

"And what about this little one?" Alex indicated Cora and smiled when Cora held up a fork with a tomato and a little egg speared on it.

"Hadn't thought about it. Would you like to watch her for me?" His eyebrows raised. "I'll watch Nathan for you if you ever need it—I know that probably won't happen, but—"

"I'm watching him tomorrow night anyway." She smiled again at Cora. "I think he'll like Cora."

"I don' like the 'matoes."

"Don't ever go to Spain." Bobby warned. "At least not during La Tomatina. You'll have nightmares!"

"You sure _you_ don't want her, Bobby?"

He lifted his eyes from Cora and took another huge bite from what was left in the Styrofoam container. "I'm sure."

* * *

"I can't make it." Alex stared disdainfully at the little girl sitting on her couch holding a blanket and a cup of cold water, her eyes glued to the screen of Alex's television. "Bobby had to go out tonight and I was elected baby-sitter."

Barek, collecting her coat and brushing her hair out of her eyes, sighed. "Well, what's he up to? Maybe Logan and I will meet him for some pool or something."

"No, he's going _out._" Alex smiled, leaning into her kitchen for more privacy. "If you hurry, you'll catch him picking up his date from her set tonight at the Back Door."

Barek gasped. "Really? I'll get Mike—God knows he's been dying to meet this girl. I overheard Deakins telling him the girl is one of those whimsical, dreamy types."

"Very down-to-earth." Alex replied, looking at her clock. "She's kinda dreamy too, though. A huge flirt, from what I can tell. Of _course_ he notices it. She isn't a secretary, but I think she's hooked him."

"At least for now."

Alex laughed. "Yeah, at least for now. I've never had to push him so hard to ask a girl out! I think he's afraid he's moving too quickly. No incubation period, you know? Anyway, you better hurry if you want to catch him. He's borrowing my car, too, so he remembers to come pick up Cora."

"Carolyn?" Logan poked his head in the front door, shooting her a mischievous smile. "Are you coming or not?"

"Bye, Alex." She snapped her phone shut and pinched Logan's cheek. "Our own Bobby Goren is picking up his date. You wanna tail him?"

"That's just cruel! Of course I do!" Logan extended his arm. "Barek?"

"I'm off duty and we're not doing anything work related." She elbowed him gruffly. "Mike."

"Carolyn." He amended, and snatched her hand. "C'mon!"

The front door of the club sported a healthy sized line, but patrons moved in and out with typical urgency, and soon enough Barek and Logan were inside the front door, scouting for either a seat at a table at the bar. Onstage a young man was singing a soft ballad while a girl with long, dark brown hair and pale and lightly freckled skin sat cross-legged on a stool, stroking a hand-drum with a brush. The scratching noise was a nice effect, and in good rhythm. She seemed to be concentrating just on that sole task. Her eyes were totally blank, and a slight smile was across her full, pink lips. She looked very much like the girl Alex had described, Barek had decided.

"How old is she?" Logan stared up at the girl balancing on the stool. "Twelve?"

"You never ask a girl that. Obviously she's old enough Goren didn't freak out about—"

"There he is!"

"Shit!" They ducked behind a pod of college-aged boys drinking themselves into stupors. After a moment Barek gained the courage to peek from behind the wall. Goren had his hand extended. The girl, gathering up a light jacket and a pair of sneakers, took his hand, her mouth flapping with some enlightening story, and then hopped off the stage. Goren's eyes trained on her, and he smiled, letting out a light chuckle. Barek elbowed Logan in the gut.

"Take a look at that, Mikey."

"So? When he an Eames play that married couple thing? They're _disgusting._"

Barek rolled her eyes. "I mean look at the way he's lookin' at her. He hasn't taken his eyes off her."

"He's an observant guy, Carolyn. He's probably picking her apart. I don't know how she stands it."

The girl spun in front of Goren, her face suddenly bright.

"After dinner, did you have any plans? I know of this secret place on Broadway across from the old-fashioned drive-in. We won't have to pay a penny to see the show."

"Sure, I'm in no hurry to get back to my apartment…"

"Stellar! You'll love it. It's a neat spot—just the right weather for it, too. Lemme grab my coat from behind the bar." She ducked behind the bartender, snatched her coat, and popped back up, her face glowing happily. "That old World War II flick is playing. If we're lucky it'll be a double-feature."

"You know, it's World War II week on the History Channel." Bobby laughed self-consciously. "Funny how—"

"Oh, no!" Jenny laughed back. "It's why I remembered! Local advertisements have been drilling it into me…"

"You…watch?" Bobby held the door for her, his eyebrows raised.

She tossed a smile over her shoulder, cocking one eyebrow. "Only sometimes. I'm a war-movie buff and you have to be a weapons and history buff to truly appreciate all the idiosyncrasies of war films. They have the least amount of problems with chronological issues, anyway. If a film is set in the Korean War, you won't have them using hand-crank guns or cursing Hitler." Her smile turned grim. "I've seen more than my fair share of politically fueled smash-fests with all the facts done up by some Hollywood bimbo."

"You and I are already getting along better." He shook his head, smiling still, and moved to walk beside her. Abruptly she grew taller and he paused, watching her balance as she placed one foot after another deftly, walking along a bench outside the bar on the small patch of grass separating the block from the curb. She stepped on a trash can, slipped back down next to him, and her hands lowered back to her sides.

"Do you do that all the time?"

"Yeah! Gets easier as it gets colder. I wear sneakers and," she stuck her foot on a newspaper machine and hopped up, using his shoulder as a support, "the rubber just sticks to it. It's like…inner-city hiking."

Bobby couldn't think of much else to do other than ask questions—first dates seemed to be about getting to know the other person. Clearing his throat, he waited for her to turn the tables on him.

"So, did you track down a criminal today?"

He smiled a little. "No, we just finished the Whittaker case. It's going to trial. Tonight and tomorrow night we have off, just paperwork in the morning and on call if anything crops up. If nothing crops up they need us for before then, we get until Monday. Monday it's back to the grind." He held out a hand, anticipating her hop onto a set of trash cans. Teetering, she grabbed the hand for support and then stabilized, still gripping his hand, her arms out to her sides. Clumps of fog drifted through the streets intermittently as the sky continued to darken.

"Where are we headed?"

"My partner's SUV is just up here." He pointed with his free hand. "From the car to the restaurant." He paused, smiling as she sent him a slight smile. "Berculli's."

"Oh, no! Really?" She hopped down and walked backwards in front of him, her eyebrows raised. "But I'm not dressed for it!"

"Sure you are." He pulled a crooked smile. "If they give you any guff I'll let you borrow my tie."

Her look of panic dissolved and she smiled, spinning back around to walk forward by his side. Alex's SUV, parked haphazardly between two smaller sports cars, looked like the end of an entertaining walk to Bobby.

"What exactly do you do?" Jenny asked quietly. "I mean, I know you're a cop, and I know you do field work, and I've heard you do paperwork, but what does field work mean?"

He took in a deep breath and shrugged a little. "We go to crime scenes, ask for certain pieces of evidence to be analyzed with special orders. Eames and I will follow the leads and interview the families and the suspects as well as witnesses. Eventually we interrogate and we'll get either a confession or trap a person in their own words."

Jenny smiled a little. "Curious how you refer to your partner as 'Eames' when talking about work and 'Alex' when talking about other activities."

"Work is work."

"It can be fun." She pointed out. "I love my job."

"I like mine, it's just not a place to socialize and have fun for me. My job is to protect and serve. Among other things."

"But you don't take it all that seriously, do you?" Jenny smiled a little. "It's one thing to enjoy bringing the bad guy in, but another to enjoy the thinking behind it. It's justification on some level."

Bobby tapped his temple. "I've always been a thinker. I get thinking too hard and I get a little…spaced, I guess, but it's what I do best, at least as a police officer." He watched her eyebrows raise and nodded, smiling wickedly. "I'm a great dancer."

"Among other things?" She added playfully, and jumped up on a bike rack, holding his shoulder for support as she stepped around handlebars and bike lock chains, her hunter green pants catching on a few squeeze-handle brakes and foam hand cushions. As she hopped down, she released a breath of pleased rapture.

"Does it give you an adrenaline rush?"

Jenny nodded in response to Bobby's question, her cheeks pinking a little. "Little things. Getting letters or cards in the mail, jumping off something I've been climbing on without dying, water-skiing, playing my guitar for people…lots of little stuff. I've been rather low-key my entire life. I love excitement, but I thrive on little stuff."

Bobby extracted Alex's keys from his pocket and unlocked her doors, walking Jenny around and opening her door. As she slipped inside, she looked around the interior and stuck her tongue out a little. Bobby closed the door and inhaled deeply. His lungs rattled, feeling too full. Releasing the held breath, he walked back around and got into the driver's seat, stretching his legs out to feel for the pedal as he started the car. Alex always complained what an awful driver he was and how she liked to drive anyway, and that was why he sat as a passenger for most of his police work. Today he just hoped no hidden lampposts or mailboxes would find a way of denting Alex's bumper.

"Berculli's." Jenny mused, staring out her window with a dreamy look on her face. "Isn't there a four piece violin band in there?"

"Three violins and a viola."

"Excellent. I shall make a request." She sat up, prim and proper. "I do enjoy a good Bach at dinner."

Bobby shook his finger at her as he pulled the gear indicator from "P" to "D." "No, this band plays a little bit of everything. You'd be able to get Janis Joplin if you really asked, but I think they'd probably stand around until we left them a tip."

She reached into her shoe and unearthed a twenty. "My lucky day!"

As he pulled into the street, he snatched the twenty. "Nope. You'll get this back at the end of the night."

Jenny folded her arms. After a pause, her voice, soft and teasing, said, "I have two shoes, Bobby."

* * *

Alex had tried a glass of water, a bedtime book, a half-hearted lullaby, and now a children's video her nephew had always loved to watch on his nights spent on her couch as Cora now refused to do. She wasn't quite upset yet, but Alex could see it coming in the near future. She refused to go to bed. She would climb into the nest on the couch, and no matter how dimmed the lights were, or how bright they were, her eyes never left Alex, as if waiting for her to pull back the curtain and reveal Bobby so they could go home.

So Alex sat very carefully on the side of the couch, not disturbing her, and lifted a fingernail to chew on. It wasn't a good idea, she decided after opening her mouth to ruin her newly trimmed nails. Fidgeting now, she stood up in a flurry and left the room to find her cell phone.

Cora began to scream. She didn't cry, or protest, she simply screamed. Alex grabbed her phone and ran back into the room. Cora, seemingly exhausted, flopped back into the cushions and blankets while two tears fell off her pudgy cheeks and onto her neck. Eames snatched a tissue out of the box on her coffee table and wiped the tears away, only picturing what Bobby was going to say.

_"She has an issue with abandonment, Eames! You can't just leave her alone like that, especially if you're going to stomp away! God, she must have been terrified…"_

"Right, like I was scared shitless, Bobby." She ran her fingers through her hair, and then punched the pre-set button her phone to call him. She had no other options than to interrupt his date.

* * *

"Oh ho! Get this, when I was twelve I entered the high school talent show with my older brother, right? I played acoustic guitar, and he played the fiddle, and we _tore it up,_ mean, the whole place was stomping feet, clapping hands, shouting! We were a shoe-in to win, but the kids backstage told the principal it was an advantage to have someone young and cute like that as part of the act. Young and cute?" Jenny laughed. "No, no, no!"

Bobby smiled, chewing thoughtfully, mulling over her words. He refused to actually analyze because she seemed so normal now, there was no reason to actually try to find a gap in her armor. But he knew she thrived off attention of others while not caring what they thought. It was rare in a woman, especially a woman in New York. He moved to grab his glass of wine when his phone began to vibrate against his leg. Thinking it must be Deakins to call him off the night, he groaned and covered his face.

"Food poisoning strikes fast, but not this fast." She jabbed him with her forefinger. "What's up?"

He held his phone up and turned in profile, flicking it open. "Goren."

"She won't go to sleep. Warm milk? I'll make this short. I just—"

"You sound like a kidnapper—I almost had a heart-attack, Alex!" Bobby exhaled. "Just turn on the TV and sit with her. Usually takes an hour or so. Leave all the lights between your bedroom and her on a little so she can find you if she needs you, and sneak away."

"She just stares at me!"

Bobby squirmed. "Turn on the TV, or put in a video. I have to go—"

"I know, I'm sorry, Bobby. Have fun, okay? I just didn't want…well, I knew _you_ wouldn't want a cranky two-year-old tomorrow." Alex hung up.

He sighed and closed his phone, turning back to Jenny, who was totally preoccupied staring at the little violin quartet moving around the dining floor to find a good place to stand and not be in the way. They settled about three tables away and began to play a lively little folk jig, not Italian in the slightest.

Jenny clapped her hands suddenly. "Joni Mitchell! I knew I'd heard it somewhere! I've been thinking about adding this song to my play-list. She tunes her guitar funky, but Brock could play guitar that one…"

"What is it?"

"'California.'" She held up a finger as if asking him to listen for a minute, and then came in with a steady but falsetto voice. "Sittin' in a park in Paris, France…"

Bobby's smile returned and he took that sip of wine, feeling her distraction as a sign she was comfortable with him. It was odd how he drew that conclusion, but the way she returned to him after a momentary, elated departure from reality was refreshing.

"How long have you been a vegetarian?" Bobby asked as she picked through her dinner to find a larger piece of pasta.

She looked up, her eyebrow raised. "Half-vegetarian since my freshman year of high school. No red meat."

"Chicken, turkey?"

"I know some people who own a farm. If I get turkey, I get it from them because they don't use any enhancers in their stock feed. Home grown, free-range turkeys and chickens. And no, I don't eat chicken." She gestured like a cleaver coming down on a wooden block. "Little weird to me."

Bobby's phone rang again. He sighed and looked at the digital read-out this time, actually panicking because this time it _was_ Deakins. Twisting, he contemplated leaving it closed. It vibrated for a few seconds more, and then, guilty somewhat, he opened it, uneasily holding it to his ear, his eyes locked on Jenny's.

"Goren."

"The fingerprints are in."

He sat up taller. "And?"

"Lucy Whittaker on the knife, Lucy Whittaker on the vase, Lucy Whittaker on the tarp they found in the back of Mom's minivan. Lana Whittaker's on the keys."

"Mom helped them get rid of the body?"

"Vomit in the back seat, all cleaned up, but the lab found traces of a lot of beef and pork, as well as some of the father's blood. It's inconclusive. Looks like the whole family did the deed together after the kids made the mess."

"Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, I'll come in and talk to Lucy Whittaker." Bobby wished he had his leather portfolio with him and sighed. "Thanks, Cap."

"Get these guys in jail, please." Deakins replied in a tired voice, and hung up.

Bobby closed his phone and put it back in his pocket, considering turning it off now. It would be just the timing to get Lewis bored out of his mind wanting to go out and do something, or Alex complaining Cora wasn't asleep yet.

"You're going to talk to Lucy?" Jenny asked, her eyebrows raised yet again. "Tricky stuff. She convinced herself of some things, and that's hard to do."

"It's the difference between the insane and the mentally ill. The ill realize they have a problem they are unable to fix and want help. The insane revel in their sickness and allow it to control them." Bobby took a bite of his dinner and looked up at her.

"I used to have a mild obsessive-compulsive-disorder. It drove my parents crazy, especially my dad." She smiled weakly. "I'd alphabetize all the books in our house, and the records. My desk in my room was organized so I'd never lose anything. My closet arranged by season, and my shoes tied so the laces were even."

"Did you find out why you did it?"

"It stopped before I went to a shrink." She shrugged and swallowed a gulp of wine. "And now I live in total squalor again. It's quite wonderful, actually."

Bobby smiled as he looked into his plate, which was nearly empty. He remembered she said something about stopping to see a drive-in movie, but not having to pay for it. He didn't think it was going to be on the agenda anymore, as late as it was getting, and felt himself pushing the last of his dinner around the plate with his fork.

"I have a little experience with the mentally ill." He waved his hand once. "My mother's up at…uh, Carmel Ridge right now."

Jenny was quiet.

"Schizophrenia." Bobby looked up and cracked his crooked smile at her. "I used to think she was the reason I get so lost in my head."

"After my father died, my OCD went away." Jenny half-whispered. "I always heard OCD was a series of rituals designed to let me feel like I could exert control over a situation."

"There's no neat little explanation for me, and mine didn't go away." He tapped his temple again that night. "Of course, I'm not _sick, _really. Just a little…weird."

"You're fabulous." Jenny replied, almost overlapping his previous statement. "I think, anyway. And, by the way your captain calls you at all hours to inform you how your case is going, I'd say I'm not the only one that appreciates you."

"I've gotten past that insecurity. More afraid my head will…abandon my body." He laughed, hearing how silly that sounded out loud. "It's like that fear—almost everyone has it. You stand at the edge of a cliff—the Grand Canyon, maybe. This tightness in your chest, this horror that your body might get mixed signals, or disobey you, and do something you don't tell it to do. The fear, it's actually a mild phobia we all have, that we'll throw ourselves off a cliff."

"I used to be terrified I'd do that." Jenny giggled and put her fork on her empty plate. "Until I went to Canada with some of my friends. There was this huge ledge over a sinkhole full of water next to this lake. The bottom was sandy and the water was warm because it was shallower there. I stood on the edge of this rock for twenty minutes, staring at the water, wanting to jump in, but wanting to choose when I did. Finally I just jumped. Fell so long, smacked myself up on the water, and got my leg stuck in the sand. I came out of the water laughing so hard I was crying."

The feeling of absurdity had passed, and Bobby now felt comfortable in his skin again. He caught sight of their waiter and smiled at her, turning to fetch the man for their bill.

* * *

"We'll catch a movie some other time, mark my words." Jenny pointed to the west side of the block. "There's this place you can sit and see the whole thing and they don't even know you're there. Sure, no popcorn or sound, but if it's a foreign film we can read subtitles. Trina and I do it all the time." She tapped her finger against one of her front teeth. "It'll be great."

Bobby was satisfied all around: his stomach was full, he felt tired enough to get some sleep, and she wanted another date. She acted as if it were expected of him, but not only of him, but of herself, and he liked the equality. She didn't wait for him to say he had a good time, or use any of the small talk. She acted like the next time they met up, they'd have to see a movie. An old movie, a foreign film, a war film, most likely—_Alex_, Bobby mused, _would be telling me I'm in love right about now._

"This building." She pointed and Bobby pulled to a stop, sliding out of his seat and walking over to hers. The patches of fog had now fallen like a blanket over the city. When she popped out of the car while he held the door open, she turned her face up, smiling into the humid, cold air.

"Snow soon, you think?"

"Pretty soon."

She walked up to her door, scuffing her feet on the sidewalk and smiling to herself. "Thanks for dinner."

Bobby, ever the gentlemen, walked her up to the front door and smiled, nodding a little as if to say he agreed. "It was nice."

Jenny cocked her head a little and then put her left toes over her right toes, her left knee wiggling a little. Bobby's sensors kicked a warning to his brain, and he bent, catching her before she could catch him again. She reached up, wrapped a familiar arm around his neck, and leaned up taller.

The options were drowning him. He could deepen the kiss, grab her somewhere inappropriate and hope for the best, call Alex and tell her not to expect him for a while longer, ask for a drink of water, pull away now and run for it before he made some stupid, embarrassing sound…

Jenny pulled away at last, resting her forehead on his a moment. Bobby's lips were parted to breath, and she smiled at him briefly before catching his face for herself. Bobby's arm, previously lax at his side, snaked around her waist and pulled her closer. Her front pressed against his, and he actually did gasp a little.

"Dinner and a movie?" A voice asked down the landing. Jenny whirled away, staring down the steps of apartment at two men with pizza boxes. They laughed in a friendly, family sort of way, and Jenny blushed, holding her palms against her cheeks.

"Brock, Andy…"

"You even made curfew." One of them said, one Bobby didn't recognize, so he assumed it was Andy. "Impressive."

When they all drew level on the stoop of the apartment building, Brock's eyebrows furrowed. "You're the guy from the bakery, aren't you?"

"One of the many." Bobby sighed, squirming a little.

Jenny pushed Brock and Andy toward the door. "Come on, leave him alone."

"You've been yapping to Trina about this guy, haven't you?" Andy looked at Brock, reading his face. "This is the cop?"

"I've officially outstayed my welcome now." Bobby laughed and moved to walk down the steps. He got down one before Jenny grabbed his shoulder. She rolled her eyes at him, indicating distaste with her roommates, and bent down, kissing him shortly on the mouth.

"Please call me again. I had fun."

Bobby felt himself smile. "Me too. Count on it."

"And next time we'll see about your fabulous dancing skills." She turned and slipped into the apartment door Brock was holding for her. Without looking back, the three of them ascended the stairs inside toward their apartment.

Bobby made it all the way inside Alex's car before he felt a small explosion in his stomach. He clapped his hands and let out a strangled squeak. It was good—_life_ was good.


	7. Dementia

_Author's Note: _Bleh, I just had to re-post this whole thing because I spotted a typo after I posted this chappie. Damnit! "write" to "right?" No thank you. It was just stupid, and I ended up crashing my computer with an overload of "NOOOO, STUPID TYPO!"

I apologize if you had an alert set up for this story and somehow ended up getting seven thousand alerts because I'm technologically impaired and can't work teh intarweb.

Anyway, there's plot twists galore coming and they all start here. Trouble is brewing, and it smells like whatever the Rock is cooking.

* * *

"Hey, did she go to sleep for you?" He handed Alex her keys, peering into the sitting area where Cora was spread-eagled over the couch.

Alex sighed as Cora sat up, straight as an arrow, and let out a wail of relief, trying to untangle herself from her blankets. Smiling weakly at Alex, he glided forward and bent, picking Cora up and bouncing her a little. She put up a fuss, but Alex watched him pat her back and shush her a moment. She let out a slight huff of annoyance, and fell asleep over his shoulder, her arms dangling limply over his wide shoulders.

"It's not just your gut that's magical, Bobby." She watched him float, almost, to the armchair where he peeled Alex's blankets off Cora and left them for her. He felt his pockets for cab money, and cursed, realizing he'd never given Jenny her twenty bucks back. It was too late now, so, he felt his smile returning, he'd have to give her a call.

"Okay, Prince Charming, why are you floating around my house like Cinderella?" Alex stood in front of him, her hands on her hips, her chin turned up defiantly. Bobby thought it was amusing how all the women in the word couldn't make him feel any smaller than Alex did when she gave him this stare. But not tonight.

"I'm not floating." He replied, but his tone wasn't that of seriousness. He sounded giddy.

"Have a good make-out session in my car?" She slapped his arm as he passed by her. "If there's a mess in there—"

"Give me a little credit." He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "I cleaned up the mess."

Her face, revolted at first, melted into anger. She slapped his arm again. "Give me the details, Bobby!"

"For what? So you can tell Bronson and half the squad?" He stuck his tongue out. "I don't kiss and tell."

She rolled her eyes. "If Janie downstairs finds out about this new girlfriend, it wouldn't be so good, would it?"

"No, don't blackmail me." He shook his finger at her, juggling Cora and his wallet, trying to find enough cab fare for the way home without breaking Jenny's twenty.

"Well, did you at least have a good time?"

"Fabulous." He replied, and winced.

Alex jumped up and down, suddenly no longer the intimidating, threatening figure she was before. "I knew it! You two had a make-out session!"

"No, I just walked her to her door after dinner…"

"Oh, c'mon, I wasn't born yesterday." She jabbed him in the stomach with her forefinger. "You have a _pink_ face right now. And," she snatched a napkin off her kitchen counter and wiped his cheek carefully, showing it to him, "you don't wear glitter—at least not just for anyone."

"I didn't—"

"Stage glitter. You picked her up right after her show, didn't you?"

Bobby just stared.

"I'm not that stupid, Bobby." She threw the napkin away. "But if you don't kiss and tell _somebody,_ you'll probably explode. G'night."

* * *

"I meant to ask you. Where was Nathan?"

"She decided to keep him" Eames replied, picking through her tote. "Do you know where I put my keys?"

"In your left hand."

"Fuck."

"Calm down, we haven't had coffee yet." He pointed down the street. "Smells freshest down there." He closed his eyes. "Brazilian mocha."

Eames stared at him, utter disgust on her face. "Only you could know that—"

Goren's face erupted into an oddly boyish smile. "Aww, Eames, I'm only joshin' ya!"

"Yeah, well, stop. It's too early and I'm too pissed off." She rattled her keys. "Where's Cora?"

Goren grimaced and shrugged. "Social worker picked her up. They're filling out some paperwork so she can be adopted soon."

"It's not too late."

"I'd have to get a nanny. Or a sitter. Or both." He shrugged. "I'll put in a request she remain close to the city and I can have visiting rights."

Eames yawned and shrugged, climbing into her SUV. "All right, but she wouldn't even go to sleep for me, and I almost duplicated your nifty little set-up at your apartment."

"Given a few weeks, she'll forget all about me." Goren nodded, fishing his hands through his pockets. "Why did your sister keep Nathan?"

"Her husband was out of town. She decided to stay in and have some special time with him. They did a puzzle and shared a milkshake." Eames' smile turned up a notch too far. "Yep."

Goren picked up his portfolio, ignoring his seatbelt while he picked through the paperwork. "Lucy Whittaker is awaiting interrogation at 'my discretion.' Then it's the kiss of death for Mrs. Whittaker. She's lost everything."

"Speaking of kisses, how was your date with Jenny?"

"Speaking of dates, what is today?"

"Speaking of today, what the hell is wrong with you?" She smiled at him. "I'm a woman. I know I don't remind you of that often enough, but I want some juicy details. I waited since Saturday night."

"We got the case Tuesday morning?" Goren shook his head. "No, Wednesday morning, they found his body late Tuesday night, early Wednesday morning. Didn't take too long…normally lab tests—of course, the fingerprints took a while. I wonder what strings were pulled to get this bumped up to Major Case."

"Bobby!" Eames stomped her foot on the floor of her SUV, slowing the car for just a moment—long enough to elicit a honk from a happy tailgater. "Come on!"

"I told you!" He looked at her incredulously. "Dinner. The string quartet played a song she recognized. We laughed. She climbed some stuff—I walked her to her door. I kissed her, her roommates came home, and I left."

"Did she ask you to call her again?"

"Yes, and I plan to. I also felt giddy when I got in the car again." He shot her a dirty look. "If you'd like a recount of my dreams when I got home, you'll have to wait for me to censor them."

There was a pause, Eames driving down the streets of New York, a slight smile hidden beneath her lips. She rolled her lips inward trying to get rid of it, then burst out with a light giggle. "Did you have a naughty dream about her?"

"Of course not." He rolled his eyes. "I had a two-year-old in the house and a lot on my mind."

"Right, what else have you had on your mind since you met that girl?"

"If you haven't noticed, we solved this case, Eames." He shook the papers at her. "I help get motive, you help me rattle the girl's cage enough, and we can shut this. She might plead guilty and we won't have to testify for any part of the trial. It'll be _closed._"

"But?"

He glanced down at his stomach. "I have this horrible feeling we screwed something up."

* * *

Goren closed the door behind himself and took his usual position in the back of the room, his arms folded over his chest, itching to reach up and rub his mouth. Eames glided in a few seconds later and took a seat with Carver across from Lucy and her lawyer, a state-defense attorney with a snide expression.

"Be honest, Detective, and we may cooperate." The lawyer warned.

Goren flashed a smile and leaned toward Lucy and the man. "Funny, we're kind of beyond needing cooperation now. I have more than enough to convict her on two murders and one count of child neglect alone. That's not counting solicitation to commit murder."

"Prove it." Lucy turned her nose up, folding her arms and crossing her bright orange legs.

Goren sat beside her, sliding closer until he could smell her prison-issued shampoo and hear her grind her teeth in annoyance. "Do you feel pretty, Lucy?"

She snapped her head down, eyeing him uncertainly.

"Are you upset no one noticed your beauty before you had to blame your father's friends?" Goren allowed his eyes to stray to her lips, which rolled inward. He watched her nibbling on them in her anxiousness, and he felt himself flash another bright, cocky smile. "Or upset no one noticed even after that?"

"Detective, I beg your pardon, but I have no idea what this has to do with her father's murder—"

"It's motive." Goren leaned back, wanting to laugh but deciding not to. "You thought you were being cast aside and you acted upon the man who you thought did it to you and to your brother. And you made your brother help, and you made your mother help." Goren allowed his forehead to knit up in confusion. "You hit your father with your brother's pottery project and cut him up. He didn't die until you and your mother dragged him from the tarp," he laid out the reports with the fingerprint analysis before her and her lawyer, "to the toilet. He drowned, too weak from blood loss to stand up." He laid out the blood report from the kitchen floor Eames had ordered. "And Josh Hurley was in your way because he was Cora's father and your mother and father favored her. They favored her in _your_ time of need."

"That's not true." Lucy whispered.

"As your attorney, I advise you not to speak. You're invoking your right to silence."

Obediently, Lucy's mouth shut, though her eyes stormed onward.

Goren shrugged. "Th-that's okay. See? We have more."

"You may choose not to talk, but you'll have a hard time not listening to the sounds of your future flushing down the prison toilet." Eames replied, pushing more papers toward the girl. "Your fingerprints on the murder weapon, Paul's hunting knife. Only yours. No smudges, nothing ambiguous. Just Lucy Whittaker's."

"And, wow, look at this." Goren pushed the photos of the Whittaker minivan across the table to her, relishing her disinterested stare. "That stain is your little brother's vomit. You made him think he was a freak, and when he did as you _told_ him to do, he got sick in the back of your mom's car. Made him worse of a freak, didn't it?"

Eames watched her silence and shook her head. "You may think you don't need them now, but by this silent treatment, despite your lawyer's advice, all you're doing is raising them onto a pedestal and putting yourself in the hole."

"You didn't like being ignored—why leave them?" Goren frowned again. "Your…cry for help. It was supposed to reach their ears, but their ears were all muted, so you had to make actions. Actions louder than words. But this time your message wasn't clear, Lucy." Goren held up a picture of her father's face. "Your message is as clear as your head."

"Smug bastard always smiled when I told him I was worried. Told me I was paranoid, and to leave him alone, he was busy. He doted on Paul, he loved Cora, he didn't leave Mom when she fucked that loser and got knocked up. He even loved the stupid junkie's kid, but he thought I wanted attention." Lucy exhaled heavily, her tired eyes falling furiously to the floor. Her arms, tightening around her, shook with unreserved hatred. "I just wanted him to tell me it would be okay, not that I was silly to worry."

"Why Josh?"

She stared up at the two detectives as if they had completely lost their minds. "He sat outside my house every night and watched me. He wanted me next. I didn't want to become my mother."

Goren abruptly stood back up and exited the room, leaving the paperwork for Eames to either collect or submit to the defense attorney to work out a plea bargain.

Eames closed the door to the observation room, staring at the back of his head while he rubbed his face with two tired hands. "Is she legitimately insane?"

"Paranoid, definitely. Living in a world of fantasy. Might be paranoid…schizophrenic. She knew what she was doing, though. She wasn't crazy when she killed him. She executed this with grace. She was on her way to becoming a serial killer, Eames. Any man on the street who lingered too long looking at her would be a victim."

"Think we can convince a jury?"

"You just have to prove the act took place and there is a guilty state of mind. I think I can handle that." Carver looked into the room where Lucy had turned her back on her lawyer, now basking in her right to be silent again.

"Case closed." Eames said in surprise.

Goren shifted and nodded, forcing a look of resolve. "Yeah, case closed."

* * *

Goren couldn't deny it felt naughty somehow to be playing this game again, pacing around inside the overly expensive fashion-slave shop with his arm looped through Eames'. They had their civilian clothes on, badges and guns well-hidden. The clerk, not a suspect, only held critical information she may not want to give to police. So, Goren elbowed Eames lightly and giggled, bending to give her a gushy newlywed smile. She reciprocated, her smile just a touch too bright. This alone made Goren want to giggle, but he suppressed the urge, finding the saleswoman's attention to them just what he wanted to see.

"See anything you like?"

"Uh, right." Alex shook some hair off her shoulders and sighed, pouting her lip. "Can't we just fly back to L.A. and go back into that place we _know_ I liked?"

This finally piqued the girl's interest enough she ventured over concern written on her face. "Is there anything I can help you find?"

"A friend of ours, Mark Bernowski, he bought his wife a dress in here last weekend." Goren looked around, preparing to explain they couldn't find it.

"So he says." Eames said bitterly, chewing her gum loudly. "I don't see it anywhere. He was lying, Neil, now let's go."

"Joyce, hold on." He tugged her, wrinkling his nose with a forced smile to the clerk. "I don't suppose you know which dress we're talking about? Tall guy—"

"Not as tall as you." Eames corrected, placing her hand on the middle of Goren's chest.

He pushed the hand away. "Blonde hair, black eye?"

A look of recognition passed over the woman's face. "Oh, sounds familiar…maybe I have his receipt."

This was going smoothly. Goren felt himself relaxing; he was pleased when operations went according to plan. The girl walked away to get the records for them and he felt a surge of restlessness in his feet. He tried bouncing on the balls of his feet, but settled for drumming his fingers against his wrist.

"Cut it out." Eames hissed. "You look anxious."

"I just can't wait to spend a billion dollars just to look at the price of the dress our victim was wearing. Bernowski didn't have a mortgage on his house worth half of this stuff." Goren puffed. "How did he get it?"

"We're going to find out. It'll give us the date and time so we can narrow bank records." She adopted a bored look. "What made hound's tooth resurface as a popular pattern? If the sixties coming back weren't bad enough…"

"At least sixties fashion didn't involve stretch pants or side ponytails."

Eames shook her finger at him, smiling happily. "Ah, ah, ah, _Neil,_ don't start defending that Jenny girl of yours."

Goren unhappily had to let it be for a time because the woman had returned with the receipt and flashed it at them. "It's out of stock now, but I can put one on order for you…"

"What day did he get it?" Goren asked, peering over her shoulder and abandoning Eames for a moment. "November 18th?" He put on a hurt voice.

"He skipped your birthday party to shop for a dress?" Eames put on a puppy-face. "Oh, honey, I'm sorry."

"Let's go. I want to have a talk with him." He pulled her arm and yanked her into the street. Flashing the receipt at her, he winked, and tucked it into his pocket, storming toward their SUV. Once inside, he busted up, waiting for Eames' reaction. She got in, shaking her head and looking bewildered before starting the car and pulling away.

"We have enough." Alex said a few moments later. "For a search warrant anyway. This guy covers his tracks."

"We have forensics coming and at least a few more days before he returns from his trip to South Africa and we can collar him." Goren lifted his hand to his mouth, wrinkling his nose as he thought.

"We can get his financials frozen just before he boards his plane. Otherwise he might be suspicious." She frowned, making a sudden turn. "Are you alive in there?"

"Yeah, just thinking." He tapped his knuckles against the glass. "That girl didn't mind we knew she'd been eavesdropping. She didn't even apologize for butting in just as we tried to leave."

"So? I know a lot of salespeople who do that."

"I just…maybe…"

"It's getting late. Are we done?" Eames yawned and looked at her watch. "I could use some greasy food and a margarita. You?"

"I could sit for a while. Are we off?"

"We'll stop in with the receipt and change. Then we can go see your precious girlfriend and you can apologize for not finding the time to call her yet."

"Alex?" His voice, normally soft when he was musing aloud, or bouncing ideas off her, was even softer than usual. She looked over and felt her chest tighten in worry as he stared back at her, his eyes heavy with shy sadness. She sensed either a soul-baring moment, or a moment of shameless begging.

"What?" She couldn't hide the dread in her voice—years with the man could only make her terrified of his "revelations."

"Please—_please_ don't mention where we're going to Logan, or Barek, or Deakins." His puppy stare turned up a notch. _"Please."_

She sighed, closing her eyes for a split second. "_Fine! _I won't tell anyone who might be happy you've got someone other than me or Lewis who actually makes time to see you after hours."

"I got nearly forty-five minutes of advice between the two of them, both of them helping me plan out—"

"Who?"

"Logan and Barek." Goren's eyes darkened and he was no longer a begging, innocent puppy. "And Bronson, come to think about it. God, I _hate_ Bronson!"

"Any good advice?"

Goren sent her an incredulous look. "Christ, Alex, how would I know? Let me bounce it off you! If I were to tickle you, would you think, 'Gee, we're already touching, why not have sex?'"

She started to laugh. "Who gave you that idea?"

"Logan." Goren put his left hand over his face. "And I predict more to come, especially if they catch wind we're going to the Back Door after we finish filing this evidence."

Eames was quiet a while and then giggled. "It does work, sort of."

"What?" He opened his eyes, staring at her. "No, I must have misunderstood you." There was a pause. _"What?"_

"Didn't you ever wrestle with your girlfriends when you were in high school?" She sent him an incredulous look to mirror his own. "Just goofing around, tickling and pinching each other? God, I used to do it with everyone. Brother, dad, boyfriend, uncle, mother, anyone who wanted to play. It was a way to bond, sort of. Most fun was with boyfriends, though. After you're both exhausted, if you let him have the upper hand, he'll kiss you."

"On what principal?" Goren demanded.

"He just made…okay, in your case, it'll make her laugh, it'll give you an excuse to touch her, and it'll make her at ease with you. She'll be open to a kiss."

Goren remained speculative the elevator ride up to the eleventh floor where he filed the receipt, gathered his clothes, and changed. On his way back to his desk to collect Eames and his coat, both of which were in his chair, one of which was scribbling a memo to herself using his abundance of sticky notes, a secretary from the front of the floor bounced up to him.

"Detective! A woman called for you around twenty minutes ago." She held up the memo, clearing her throat. "She just wanted to say she wanted to warn you she won't be playing at the Back Door for a couple weeks starting Tuesday so you'd better call her before the coincidence well dries up." The secretary looked over the paper she'd held at arm's length to deliver like a Shakespearean sonnet.

"Sounds like someone's in trouble." Alex teased.

Bobby groaned and pulled his coat and Alex's coat from a nearby coat rack. "Here, let's go. I want to make sure we catch her before her set." He glanced at his watch. "We better hurry."

They rushed into the Back Door just barely a minute before Bobby guessed they'd be starting the set. Onstage Brock and another man were moving the drum-set into place, grunting and not getting any help from the girl tuning her guitar on the corner.

Straightening up, Bobby loosened his tie and walked up to the edge, reaching up and tugging a strand of her hair. Her eyes remained in her work a moment longer before she glanced out and smiled brightly. Eames watched her slide down to sit on the edge of the stage. Bobby jumped up beside her and sat, talking and shrugging, looking a little sheepish. She grabbed a pen from a passing waiter's apron and held out her arm and the pen. With a slight show of hesitation, he wrote something down on her inner forearm. She capped the pen for him and pointed over his shoulder, stopping to take a sip of water.

Fed up with being left alone, Alex wandered over, standing with a slight smile on her face as she watched Jenny explain to Bobby about the setup.

"They want to do a lot of Rolling Stones tonight, so they're dragging the whole drum set to the middle of the stage so we can have a symmetric band tonight. We have six people. The whole setup is going to be either off to the left or off to the right. They should have left him in the left corner. It's the best place, anyway, acoustically." She let out a sigh and pulled her guitar into her lap again, strumming a soft chord. "I've been trying to figure out that Joni Mitchell song."

"Any progress?"

"Andy and Brock are officially sick of the song." She replied, laughing that musical, lilting laugh of hers.

Bobby looked up and met Alex's eyes. "You remember Alex, Jenny?"

A hand was thrust at Alex, so she shook it, smiling warmly at the woman and hoping to God she'd give her some fuel to take back to the office in the morning. Her glittery makeup was muted under the stage lights so she simply glimmered rather than looking like a mannequin made of sequins.

"Lucy was arrested?" Jenny nodded her head toward the television set behind her, mounted on the wall, currently playing a hockey game. "I saw it on the news, I thought."

"Yeah, she's going to be arraigned in two weeks." Bobby squirmed. "What are you doing after your show tomorrow?"

"Absolutely nothing. My deadbeat date from earlier this week hasn't called me." She sighed, looking skyward. "And I thought I'd found a responsible guy, you know? A cop, even."

"Well, the entire gender is dumb." Alex replied, smiling smugly at Bobby, who was looking like someone has kicked him in his magical gut. Sending her a slight sneer, he turned to Jenny and pursed his lips.

"Yes?" She fluttered her eyelashes seductively.

"I'm sorry about your deadbeat date. Don't take it out on me, hey?"

She snorted, patting his cheek. "Sorry, honey. It's just my nature."

"I'll make it up to you." He offered, pouting now. "Tomorrow night."

"No more fancy dinners." She shuddered. "I'd have to dress up and let you pay again. Nightmarish!"

He reached in his pocket and held out her twenty dollar bill. "I forgot about this, too. See how I am? I made sure I'd have to come to see you one more time."

"Freudian slip?" Her eyebrows wagged and she looked at the bar, sighing. "Hold on, I'll be right back."

Alex smiled at Bobby, and then followed Jenny. He started to stand up to yank her back, but decided if she felt it necessary to question her about anything, he might as well let her.

"Pardon my prying." Alex helped her juggle a few bottles of water to carry to her band, the Wildcats. "But—?"

"I'm twenty-eight. I've never been married. My dad died in a training accident while stationed in England, I was born in America, went through grade school in England, and got into music the first time I ran away from home." Jenny smiled sneakily at Alex. "If you can run a background check on me whenever you feel like it, I might as well be honest."

"You're only twenty-eight? Bobby is going to have a heart attack."

"I'm sure he knows I'm younger." Jenny's forehead wrinkled in concern. "How old is he?"

"Forty-four."

"I've done worse." Jenny sighed, looking over at him, sitting on the side of the stage taking apart the pen Jenny had given him earlier to write his number on her arm with. Alex now looked at Jenny's arm and felt her lips rolls inward in surprise.

"He gave you his cell number?"

"I guess. I had to get out a phone book just to get the front desk of the other place."

"Not his land-line."

"He's never at home, he says."

Alex still couldn't shake the oddity of the decision on Bobby's part. She finally refocused on Jenny's statement from before. "You said you've done worse?"

Jenny nodded, laughing. "On all counts, yes. I've dated younger, older, middle range…immature, too mature, and just right mature. Dull, too exciting—musicians are the worst. They think they understand me just because they like music. Doesn't mean they think like me, nor do I want them to." She hugged an extra water bottle and started back to the stage. "Your partner is a gentleman and a half."

"Yeah, you haven't seen him interrogating the scum of the earth!" Alex laughed. "His manners go right out the window!"

"That's okay. I'm the same way with…dumb people." Her eyes flashed with mirth, the glitter on her cheeks catching the purple stage lights brilliantly. "He's a brilliant interrogator, I'll bet."

"Absolutely. He's been distracted lately, though." Alex put some of the bottles down on the nearest table. "It's you."

"That's okay." Jenny repeated, putting her bottles down, too. "He's distracted me. Tit for tat, right?"

"I s'pose." She smiled a little as Jenny made her way back to Bobby and kissed him shortly on the mouth before climbing up and going backstage. Bobby watched her and then slid off the stage to the floor, dusting his hands off before joining Alex at a nearby table.

"Which degree did you give her? She wasn't rattled at all."

"She's a smart one, Bobby-boy. She figured she might as well be honest because I can run a background check if I don't like her." Alex's respect for the girl had skyrocketed in the last few seconds. "She's young, though."

"Tell me she's not eighteen. Please tell me she's not." Bobby rested his head in his arms, sprawled over the table like some gigantic, dying whale, his ribs rising and falling with his final breaths.

"Add ten years."

He was quiet, and then he peered up. "She's twenty-eight?" He glanced at the stage. "Twenty-eight?"

"You could have done worse." Alex poked him. "She's done worse than you, she said."

"What a compliment. 'I've done worse.'"

"She said you were a gentleman and a half." Alex offered. "She sounds smitten, and so do you."

He laughed, still buried in his arms. "I thought the same thing a few nights ago. I thought you might say that."

"Twenty-eight." Alex released a whistle. "Are you sure you don't want to brag to Bronson and the others?"

"I'm sure I don't want to." He finally peered at her from behind his arms, the scruff on his face a little longer than it was that morning.

"You're so weird." She patted him on the back and shook her head.

* * *

Eames stopped him right before he darted out the door to collect a cab and get home. His car, finally sent to rest in peace, was in little pieces with his pal Lewis, and he had started straining his wallet avoiding the cold winter weather. She could tell he was in a hurry because of his impending make-up date with Jenny, and he stopped at the shout of his voice with an uncertain frown as he rotated on his left heel, his hands loosely clenched.

"Child services sent a letter. Cora was taken to the house with my buddies from college yesterday." She waved a letter. "They put a return letter in my mailbox by mistake? Thanking you for your letter to Cora?"

He reached for it, pacing over to her silently.

Eames held it just out his reach, reading her favorite part aloud. "She sleeps with your letter under her pillow every night. She sleeps through the night. She has resumed her finger painting. She talks about you all the time and her adoptive parents are interested in scheduling a visit." She waved the letter at him. "They have a number for you."

He took it, folding it and putting it in his inside coat pocket without reading it. Focusing lightly on her, he sent her a shy smile. "Thank you."

"Bobby, I'm just curious…what are you going to do with her tonight?" Eames raised her eyebrows.

He turned around and held his arms out. "Sing a sweet love sonnet, shake my thang, and hope to God she's an easy lay. Same old, same old, right?"

"Women like her love men who cook!" She shouted in response and he shook his finger at her over his shoulder while he retreated.

Eames sighed. "I hate it when he's sarcastic like that. Answer me this, but never answer me that! Too simple!"


	8. Family Psychosis

_Author's Note:_ Oh my gosh, whoo! I'm back! I totally forgot I was making a trip to Toronto Thursday-Sunday and my updates ceased. Whew, that was a heart-attack for me. Canada was awesome (our great neighbor to the north!) and I had tons of fun. Here's what you _really_ came here for...

Wait, I'll ask another question: are the chapter titles too depressing? At first I was amused with the idea of making every chapter title relating with a psychological problem, but now it seems a little...ehhhh.

* * *

"Did you eat?" Bobby held his arm out for Jenny as she hopped up to balance along the thin rim of a fountain full of slightly frosted water. She held her arms wide as soon as she gained her footing again and smiled down at him.

"Nope. My house has this horrible rat problem. My roommates are rats and don't share the macaroni and cheese." She jerked his hand as he reached out to steady her. "Come on, walk with me."

"I am." He tugged back, stifling a smile. "I'm no tightrope walker."

"Neither am I!" She bent in half, staring directly into his brown eyes with her own eyes, which were a dark, grayish blue. "Come on. Grow down, Detective!"

Freezing rain started to fall, and Jenny looked skyward, smiling ecstatically into the cold weather. "You don't have a lot of time. It'll get frostbite-y if you don't hurry!"

He hoisted himself up in a moment of thoughtlessness and she clutched to him, holding him upright while he lifted his eyebrows in surprise. They wobbled and she caught his eye, mirth filling her entire face, making it glow.

"If you have to fall, fall away from the puddle."

"Puddle?" He started to laugh, upsetting his balance further. "It's a fountain full of New York's acid rain."

"So, if you have to fall, fall away from it!" She pulled away and started to walk. He followed her as far as he could, and then stepped down, holding his arm out, looking toward his apartment wearily.

"We could stop and get a movie." She wiped wet bangs out of her eyes as she hopped down next to him. "I heard there's a terrible B movie about a mechanized warrior Hitler designed. Don't you love making fun of those?"

"Actually, I've never really seen a bad Hitler-robot movie before."

"Ah, a virgin." She twisted in front of him, walking backwards with a playful grin. "I'm honored to be your first!"

"Just don't tell my partner. She'll be hurt I didn't at least warn her." He reached forward and turned her around, alerting her to the trash can she'd nearly run into. She raced ahead, jumping the trash cans, and swung around a utility pole. "Should we stop for pizza, too?"

"With as much as I have in my cupboards? Yes."

"So, we're going to your place?"

"Unless we want to grab a couple of pies for Andy and Brock." He cocked his eyebrow. "My first time with two other guys? No, thanks."

"So, we could get a pie, and some beer."

"Now beer I do have." He paused, getting his bearings, feeling the rain soak into his shoulders. "We could catch a cab to Rico's, grab a pizza, and walk to the little video place. From there my apartment is only a few blocks." He watched her tilting her face back into the rain. Her makeup wasn't running, which left the possibility she wasn't wearing any, which startled Bobby because he assumed most women didn't leave the house without at least a touch on.

"So, if we can't find this extremely rare D grade robotic-Hitler movie, we should be able to find a Monty Python classic, or at the very least some action-packed cop movie with some A-list actor I despise." She flopped her hair out of her face and ruffled it. "Cold air from Canada! Smells like beer and hockey to me!"

"Actually, it's an eastern wind, coming off the Atlantic." He pointed west. "That's why it's so cold. Wind's blowing across the Atlantic."

"Wind is in from Africa? Last night you couldn't sleep?" She cracked him a meek grin. "Sorry, I've been learning a lot of Joni lately. I just love learning new music."

"You're a diligent student, then?"

"To the point of stupidity, sure. I play stuff on my boom box over and over until I can hear it, then I play it over and over until I get it." She pointed to her head, humming. "If I can hear it here, it'll come out here." She jabbed her throat.

"Interesting method."

"Visualization. A crutch for my head, but an effective one. How about you? Talents?"

"Figuring people out." He smiled weakly. "I was in intelligence in the army and I'm mostly an interrogator/profiler now."

"Well, I'm no valedictorian, but my mother is one of those body-language reflexology-professional freaks. I know how to turn a guy on with one touch and knock him unconscious with another." She wiggled her fingers. "Handy information. That and other little things." She touched his hand, which was scratching at his pocket. "Makes you nervous I can read into you like you can read into me."

"More that I know you're reading me. I can handle people getting me, but I don't like knowing they are." He laughed gently. "When you saw my feet at the bar the night you gave me your number…"

"Well, even if I hadn't seen them I would have kissed you." She jumped up, smacking his cheek with a kiss. "I never could resist cute boys or handsome men."

"Are you cold?"

"Don't offer me your coat, but yes."

He opened his coat and yanked her in. "I wouldn't dream of being so chivalrous. After all, I'm just as wet as you are."

She put up a show of stopping him and turning herself around, smiling at him while the rain pounded harder. Rivulets ran down her face. She smiled brightly, her teeth shining out at him in the dull light of a Laundromat. He turned his collar up to increase the surface area of his coat and wrapped it around them tighter. They were both enclosed, for a moment, in his body heat, and she turned her face up for him to kiss. He bent, they touched, and a honk startled both of them.

"Hey, buddy! You gonna catch your death?"

"No! We need a ride to Rico's for pizza. You know where that is?" He fished around for cab fare.

"Sure! Get in!" They climbed in and the cabby shook his head more. "Christ, that's no way to treat a lady, makin' her walk in the rain…"

"I like the rain." Jenny replied and touched her wet palm to the window. "Summer rain is better, but that was nice. Certainly a wake-me-up."

Bobby's heart thudded still. They hadn't even made it to his apartment and he'd tried to initiate some grope-fest. He couldn't imagine what would happen when they'd settled down for a crappy, none too interesting movie with pizza and beer. He could see this ending in a botched game of spin-the-bottle.

"Do you know where the family-owned video store is?"

"Yeah, just a couple blocks from Rico's on fifth, right?"

"Right. We need to go there after we pick up a pie. Mind waiting?"

"Not if you leave the meter running. Besides, you oughtn't walk anywhere in this weather." He turned condescending eyes on Jenny. "Even if the rain is a good wake-me-up."

She curled along Bobby's side, smiling meekly again. "I'll manage without the pneumonia."

Because of the weather, it seemed, Rico's was nearly empty. They ordered a pizza, half and half, with a mishmash of toppings. He'd talked her out of anchovies on basic principal of pizza-eating, and she'd admitted she was just trying to gross him out. They settled on some veggie-cheese combo on her side and some weird pepperoni and onion combo on his side. Once outside, they got back into the cab, rode the two blocks to the video shop, and went inside, leaving their dinner with the cabby. Jenny was a little disheartened they didn't carry her robotic-nazi movie, but settled for a C-grade horror movie parody she insisted they watch. So, Bobby stood at the register across from a five foot tall girl working the counter, staring at her as if silently saying, "Yes, I do want to rent 'Killer Klowns From Outer Space.'"

Back in the taxi, Jenny bounced her legs up and down, wiping her bangs out of her eyes yet again. "This is going to be great, Bobby."

"I'm just curious what this is about."

"Title says it all. But they make fun of a lot of stuff. For example, one clown is trying to break some biker's motorcycle, right? And the biker comes up and pulls him away and makes fun of him, so the clown gets down in a biker's crouch and starts waving his arms like an old-fashioned boxing star." Jenny folded her arms, adopting an incredulous look. "The biker goes, 'What are you gonna do? Knock my block off?' And the clown punches him in the head, and it flies off."

"His head flies off?"

She laughed, nodding. "That's hard to believe even for a horror flick about alien clowns. It was a precious, precious moment in my life the first time I saw it."

Using the last of his cash, he paid the cabby and they walked up to his apartment. He paused a minute, noticing the numbers on his door for the first time since the entire Whittaker case. They were tilting over and the six had fallen over like a nine.

"Hold on," he showed her to some paper plates and then took his hammer and tacks out to the hall. She listened to him tacking the numbers into place and when he returned, she sensed a slight relief in him he'd discovered the problem and fixed it.

"Whatever happened to Cora?"

"She stayed with me a few days until we filed paperwork for her adoption." He replied, smiling a little. "Which is why I didn't notice the numbers upside down until now. I've been busy."

She handed him a plate with some of his half of the pizza on it and turned, opening his fridge. He only had the imported kind, and she pulled open the nearest drawer, extracting a bottle-opener. Pleased she'd been able to find everything so easily, she handed him an opened beer as well, returning the bottle opener to the drawer with a smirk.

"Bachelors! So practical, especially in the kitchen."

"Until you see my TV setup." He showed her to his sitting room. The desk in the corner, littered with files from the past case, was unusually messy. He figured every house had one desk, at the least, with papers all over it. He tucked away some shots of the dead body in the middle of the car which had been set on fire, and sat beside her on the couch before pushing about seventy-five different remote control buttons. Finally a DVD player stuck its tongue out and she got up to put the disc in. When it started to play, he got up and shut off all but a couple lights in the apartment.

Unlike Eames, who would give away some pivotal plot point right before it surfaced, as she often did to him when she'd swing by for files and he'd be watching something on TV she'd already seen, Jenny was silent right before funny or startling things happened. Gales of laughter would then surround them both because it was just too funny how dumb some of the lines and plot points were. He pointed out a few "common sense errors" as he called them, and they shared a few minutes worth of conversation on how practical it would be to eat one's way out of a cotton candy bubble. He kept the volume controls handy because some parts were loud, and other parts they were carrying on with quiet discussion. Abruptly, while he drained the last of his first bottle of beer, she leaned over him to pick the right remote.

"Rising crescendo…" She murmured, turning the TV up and then settling along his side with a content sigh.

"More pie, madam?" He smiled down at her.

"Pumpkin, if you got it."

"Not tonight, sorry."

"I had enough my first round." She smiled. "But go ahead if you want more."

He shuffled his feet playfully. "Shucks, thanks, Miss Cooper!"

"Hey, I may have poor taste in movies," she shouted at him while he retreated to the kitchen for more pizza, "but I'm not unfair to my unfortunate dates."

"I might be nutritionally deprived, but that's not so terrible." He chewed and made an agreeable sound, accepting a slight slap in the arm for interrupting the movie.

"If you'd kept the anchovies, you'd at least have some omega-three in it. Isn't that what it's called?" She turned to check her facts with him and he just shrugged, forgetting what might be an appropriate response.

Settling along his side again, she curled her legs up on the couch, shoes gone. Kicking off his own, he laid his legs on his coffee table and draped his arm over the back of the couch, as he did in any case, Jenny or not. After a while, when he'd taken off his tie and settled more, he realized his clothes were still damp. Jenny's hair had dried to a slight frizz.

"I'm going to change." He touched her damp shoulder. "Would you like to borrow a sweater?"

"That actually sounds nice." She pulled her knees up to her chest and smiled. He ducked into his bedroom, only missing a few minutes while he made a quick change. A sweater sounded good to him, and when he removed wet socks and put on shoes, he found an extra sweater, a cotton and wool combination he had worn to death over the years. Now in jeans and much more comfortable, he slumped back out to the couch, holding out the sweater to her. She rose up and took it to his bathroom, removing her shirt. He heard her hanging it over the shower curtain rod and then returned. They settled quietly again.

A long stretch of the movie consisted of running and flying popcorn. Jenny had taken to drinking the last of Bobby's second beer. Her hair, still frizzy from the humidity as it dried, was curling around her temples and the back of her neck. He realized she must dry it with a hair dryer for the most part, to get it to lay flat.

"Is your hair naturally wavy?"

"It used to be curly. It's too heavy to stay in curls, though." She touched the perfect curls at her temples. "Except here, I guess. They get worse the dirtier my hair gets, too."

He allowed his fingers to trail over the soft curls at the base of her neck, and she turned her eyes on him, smiling at his distraction.

"You have the same waves."

"But when mine gets long it doesn't start to lie flat like yours. It gets bigger and wilder. I learned way back I don't look good in an afro." He laughed a little at the internal picture of himself sneaking to the local barber shop to get his ridiculous hair shortened before it got out of control. Her eyes had locked on his smile, and when he noticed, he ducked low and landed a well-executed peck on her temple.

Jenny squirmed onto the couch further so she was cross legged, her arm looped around her right knee. She leaned against his side and his arm, resting along the couch, fell onto her shoulders. The movie had ended and the DVD had stopped. He rushed to find something else for the TV to do to provide background noise, and he flipped to the History Channel out of habit. Jenny rolled her eyes, pushing his hand and the remote back into the armchair. He sank back against the cushion as she settled over his stomach, having leaned over to gain control of his arm.

"I like your painting." Her eyes were locked on Cora's piece of art. "Little foot in the middle. Cora's?"

"Yeah." He shifted his free arm around her waist. "I liked that one. An oil painting on canvas, too. It fit nice with the décor, I thought, with all the pink and purple." He smiled meekly.

"There's something about this place…it's tidy." She pointed to the empty space between his coffee table and TV blindly. "I have dirty clothes and guitars there." She pointed at the empty half of the couch she'd produced in spreading herself over his stomach and half his lap. "Brock stays there because I don't share the bed and neither will Andy."

"It must be difficult living with two men." He heard something in the background noise he'd made sure was present, explaining about an old castle in Scotland which was rumored to have been the birthplace of King Arthur at one time.

"You get used to them." Her eyes sparkled.

Sighing and closing his eyes, he leaned down and kissed her. Lazily, almost, Jenny rested fully across his stomach and Bobby pulled her up so his neck wasn't bent down. She was then across his lap with her chest pressed against his, one arm along his with her hand clenched onto his shoulder. Her other arm lay limp at her side, the palm open, her wrist rubbery. As she melted and released her tight grip on his shoulder, Jenny let out a light sigh with a soft coo.

The blanket resting along the back of the couch started to slide down the inside of the back of the couch, and Bobby grabbed it, tossing it over her and himself, smiling at the sleeves of his sweater on the girl, too long for her hands, and the length of it resting across her thighs. The body heat cocoon returned, and this time there was a droning, uninteresting voice in the background, providing just enough comfort to provide ambience. Bobby shifted and pulled his feet up onto the couch along side Jenny's. She rested her face in his neck and tightened an arm around his neck in a hug before curling along his broad chest, a second soft sigh escaping her. He kissed her temple, brushing her long hair over the side of the couch so it tumbled down to the carpet. Inhaling a slightly familiar scent, Bobby caught sight of a famous castle in Austria and felt his eyes drop shut with a relaxed, tired sigh.

* * *

Bobby's alarm in the other room woke him up first thing in the morning. He was surprised he'd slept through the night, or what had been left of it when he had fallen asleep with Jenny the night before. The blaring radio in the other room crowed morning traffic reports and last night's news as well as late-night happenstances. He felt groggy but well-rested, and was amazed at how soundly he slept.

Jenny's face was completely obscured by her hair, which had crept over her face in the night. She wriggled a little and peered up at him through her bangs, which were in little waves over her eyes.

"Morning, sunshine." She laughed and sat up, her face puffy from sleep. He reached up, touching his eyes and feeling how puffy and tired he was too. Laughing to himself, he shrugged.

"I just need a little coffee and those sharp looking clothes. They make me wake up pretty quick."

"I'd wake up too if I had to tie a noose around my neck every morning." She didn't try getting up. "Do you want me to put a pot on before I go?" She looked at his clock. "I'm late for work anyway."

"No, it's my morning to stop for coffee this morning." He glanced at the clock, too. "I need a shower…"

"Pity." She tucked her face into his neck again. "I'm comfortable."

He ran his hand up her back and smiled. "Until you catch the first whiff of morning breath and notice just how filthy I am."

She extracted herself from his collar bone and groaned, carefully climbing out of the couch. Stretching her arms over her head, she turned in profile, silhouetted against the morning sun shining through the window. Without realizing it, he released a sigh.

Finishing her yawn, she reached down and grabbed her shoes, bending to kiss him on the forehead. "That movie isn't due back until Friday." She walked toward the door, tugging her sneakers on as she went. "If you can't get it there yourself, give me a ring."

"Sure." He sat up, smiling. "Nice pick, by the way."

She grabbed a piece of pizza, looking at his clock again, taking a bite and stomping her left foot into her shoe. "Fanks."

"You work for Brock some mornings?"

"Most mornings." She swallowed. "I'm the bread lady."

"Good banana nut bread, in that case." He stood up, feeling his smile turn up a notch.

She successfully had her shoes on. Grabbing her coat from its position draped over a kitchen chair, she grinned and thanked him for dinner and the movie. She darted out the door and Bobby ambled his way into the bathroom where he saw her shirt draped over his curtain rod. She had taken his sweater, and God knows what that would mean. If she returned to him in front of Eames, or Deakins, or even Logan or Barek, he was toast. Still, the idea wasn't horrifying. He set it aside in his bedroom and laid out his clothes for the day, feeling groggy and ready for a shower. He would need to stop for money to buy the morning coffee, and he'd still just barely beat his partner to the office. And he was _always_ early.

* * *

"Cutting it close are we?" Deakins asked as he noticed Goren sitting at his desk and placing a cup of coffee at Eames' spot. He glanced up, opening his portfolio. Immersed in the case again, he just shrugged and took a sip of the scalding hot beverage, feeling much more awake than usual.

"I'm still a few minutes early. The line for coffee was a mile long and I had to get sugar." He dropped the sugar packets at her spot, too, stealing one of her pens and using it to underline the toxicology screen results from their dead body.

Deakins stood there a moment, watching his detective work and feeling proud of how well things ran in their tight-knit workplace. He finally tapped his handful of files against the corner of Eames' desk, preparing for what he was going to have to say.

"Child services called me personally to ask for you to take an extra hour of your lunch period today to go visit Cora Whittaker."

He glanced out of his paperwork, his eyes opened wide. They weren't scared, but awake and alert of every connotation this designated. "Is she giving trouble?"

"I think the people who met Eames and were recommended for adopting her are eager to meet you. They're grateful for your letter and since they're taking her home tonight, they thought you'd help introduce her." Deakins tapped his files against the desk again. "You've gotten rather involved this time, Bobby."

"She was the only innocent victim in the household." He looked back into his papers, feeling his head shaking back and forth. "She deserved better than to be stuck with some foster family coming directly out of that hellhole. I was prepared to…g-give her a little extra attention until she could be placed. It wasn't much."

"One second you said you cared about her because she deserved better and needed the extra attention. Next you said it wasn't much."

"Not a lot of effort is needed for a huge impact on a tiny life like hers." Goren amended, tapping his stolen pen against the edge of his desk. "She slept a lot, and she liked to paint when she was awake. If she had trouble going to sleep, she'd stay up and watch TV with me, if not, she'd sleep while I read cases and waited for those fingerprints to come in."

"And you don't mind she's going to be in Chelsea with Eames' friends?"

He looked up, feeling like his insistence was a lost cause now. "I don't mind, no. I'm happy things turned out for her. I'm glad I got to help. Doesn't mean I…doesn't mean I wanted to be the one to settle things down for her and give her the steady home." He pointed to himself. "I'm not married, I don't present the full household. She's in a better place now. I was just the step between hell and where she is now."

Deakins nodded, feeling less like he was dragging something his detective had cared about away from him. "Okay. They left me a number. Can you meet them today, or would it be better tomorrow?"

"Better make it today." He looked up as Eames stepped out of the elevator. "I have no idea what's planned for tomorrow and I might need the lunch hour for some field work."

"Morning, Cap." Eames hung her purse on the coat tree with Goren's coat and removed her own, pulling off a pair of gloves. It was the precious few days before she pulled out her knit beanie hat and started wearing that to work on top of her newly layered hair.

"Nice 'do, Eames." Goren smiled and started to tap his pen.

She snatched it back. "Thanks, thief. And the coffee was a nice touch."

"I thought maybe the coffee would warrant the pen, at the very least." He took one of his own, with blue ink, and frowned in distaste. "Share?"

"No, it's my pen."

"Wench." He resumed his underlining with his blue-inked pen for a moment.

Eames was quiet a moment, and then laughed.

"What?"

She reached across the desk and pulled a single, long, wavy dark hair from the lapel of his suit. He'd thrown his sweater onto his suit that morning before jumping in the shower; it was very likely the hair had gotten attached before he left that morning.

He was quiet.

She laughed harder. "She's been in your apartment, Bobby?"

"Ever seen 'Killer Klowns From Outer Space?'" He rearranged his tie and adjusted his belt. "It's a parody of bad horror movies."

"This is your way of telling me you had her in for a movie last night?" Her eyebrows raised dramatically. "Did she pick through all your stuff? That drives you crazy. She's the type, too."

He bent over his paperwork again. "Bronson's here. Abort mission."

"You bastard." She grinned and bent over her work, taking her pen and uncapping it. "I'll get it out of you yet."

* * *

He turned the radio up. Eames hadn't been aware it had been on, ever, during their transit. At the very least it had been on the lowest notch in case one them needed to hear the weather or if the media had caught wind of their killer or arsonist or whatever. Now, as the song playing grew in momentum, he turned the dial up and glanced out the window, tapping his blue pen against his knee, his portfolio zipped and tucked under his left arm.

The woman singing had an impossibly high and clear voice. She scooped and popped to her different notes, and Goren seemed to enjoy the sound, jiggling his knee to the beat without really meaning to.

Eames took a hard right, nearly missing their turn while staring at his reaction. "Whoops!"

He laughed, grabbing the handle above the seat, and caught her purse before it went sailing across the dashboard and hit the steering wheel. "Careful, Cap'n! The cargo isn't tied down yet!"

"Who is this?" She jabbed the radio buttons, turning the dial up more. "I've heard this. Is this Joni Mitchell?"

"I think so."

"When did you start listening to Joni Mitchell? I thought you were a classical music and opera guy."

"I hang out with Lewis." He raised his eyebrows, giving her a serious and condescending look. "He's a metal-head."

"I hear the metal in her voice." Eames replied dryly.

"I just mean he provides variety."

"You mean Jenny?" Eames fluttered her eyelashes girlishly. "This sounds like something she'd sing."

"You'd be right." He replied in a bouncy tone, suddenly bringing his hands up to mime a microphone. "California, I'm comin' home!" His shrill falsetto caused Eames to grind her teeth together and start to swerve into a telephone pole.

"Goren!"

He leaned out the window, which he'd started rolling down during his impromptu solo, and pointed furiously. "It's our suspect! He's walking _toward_ Central Park!"

"Okay, making a U-turn." She put the blinker on and swerved around traffic, reaching blindly for her dashboard police light to ward off any grouchy drivers.

"Park here. We can catch him…"

"On foot?"

"He's _walking._ I think I can catch up to him." Goren unbuckled and opened his door a crack, waiting for her to slow more. "Follow me when you get a spot." He left his portfolio and took off at a healthy jog toward the man walking toward Central Park with his head down as the cloudy sky blew across town, blowing patches of fog through the streets. Goren pulled on his hat and looked both ways before crossing the street.

Eames shook her head. He had totally internalized. Any social interaction he'd needed from Eames before, to work with her inside and outside One Police Plaza, was replaced. She wasn't jealous, just surprised with the efficiency with which Goren worked when he didn't feel it necessary to slow down and explain himself. Part of it was comfort with a steady partner he got along with, but part of it had to be—

"Goren!" She jumped out of her car and locked it, waving to him as he kicked a can some half a block away, his hands stuffed in his pockets. "Damnit…"

She broke into a run and caught him just a hundred or so feet from their suspect, her breathing ragged and hair disheveled. "Did you drink four hundred shots of espresso this morning? What's gotten into you?"

"No, I only had the one cup…" He grinned and then frowned a little, eyeing her. "Where's you hat? Your ears are turning red from the cold—"

"Oh my _God_ you got laid didn't you?" She punched him lightly in the stomach. "You little bastard!"

"No, no." He shook his finger at her playfully. "I don't kiss and tell, remember?"

"I'll ask her. I can run background checks. Jenny won't lie to me."

"Because our database catalogues every person's sexual exploits."

"So she's an exploit?"

"I didn't sleep with her." He replied, exasperated. "And if I had, I wouldn't let you know so clearly. I'm like this because I got a few extra hours of sleep."

Eames couldn't hide her disappointment. "You slept well? That's it?"

"That's it." He tapped their suspect on the shoulder as they finally caught up with him. "Hey, Mark? Robert Goren. Mind if we take you downtown for some questions?"

He bolted.

"I hate it when they run." Eames groaned.

Goren smiled at her. "I'll get him." He took off again, and Eames shook her head, feeling lost in her own head, which was just as empty as it had been when he started singing in his grating, horrible falsetto and jumped out of her moving car.

* * *

The simple fact he'd evaded police had their suspect in jail overnight, and so Goren didn't press hard for an interrogation. He wanted time to think, and he was trying to find a bus to take him to the social center where he'd be meeting the adoptive parents of Cora Whittaker, soon to be Cora Matthews, and look as happy as possible when he came back. He loathed the idea of eliciting dating advice as well as a "cheer up" from either Bronson or Deakins again. So, finding a bus and boarding it, he started toward the back.

In the last seat, the extra wide seat with the space for a handicapped person to store a wheelchair, a young woman with an apron and a crumpled paper chef's hat rested her face against the window, a single tear hanging on the end of her nose.

Goren sat one seat in front of her, recognizing the guitar she'd stored beside her despite her obvious reluctance to touch the thing.

Fishing into his pocket, he produced his handkerchief and turned around, holding it out to her. "Are you all right?"

She opened her eyes, smiling and sniffling a little. "Yeah, I guess."

"Did you just get off work?" He indicated her jelly-spattered apron and flour-covered face. "At the bakery?"

"I did. And I just broke up with my boyfriend." She shifted the guitar closer.

"Your boss."

"Bingo." She sniffled again and kicked the guitar case weakly. "And Jenny had me take her stupid guitar home…the bridge is too loose to play now. She said she has to glue it down."

Goren stifled a smile while the woman blotted at her tears with his handkerchief. After a few stops, she uneasily folded the handkerchief and wrung it in her hands. Goren spotted the social center. Rising up, he nodded to the driver, who stopped at the empty bus stop and waited for him to get off.

"Wait! I'd like to get this back to you!" The woman half-stood, her arm raised, his dampened handkerchief in her fist.

He smiled, halfway out the door. "Keep it." After a moment, smiling to himself, he turned his head to her again. "Or give it to Jenny. She knows where to find me."

Inside the center a set of twins sat side by side with their mother, who was accompanied by two police officers. She had flakes on her fingernails, and a blue fingertip or two. Her teeth weren't in the best of shape. She stroked their heads lovingly and told them she'd visit. She started coughing, and a convulsion started to shake her. She was inches from an overdose even as she kissed her children goodbye. Goren slit his eyes against the image and stepped around them, pausing at the desk.

A woman looked up, smiling from behind an open file. "Here to see Erin and Kyle Matthews?"

"Cora Whittaker." He shifted. "If that's who's adopting her, then them too, yes."

"Come with me." She came out a side door and gestured for him to follow. For a split second he'd seen her reach for him, as if to take his hand and hold it while they walked to the room. He knew he must look a little detached, maybe even childlike in his fascination with his loyalty to this case and this little girl.

At the end of a hall, in a brightly lit room with a huge red rubber ball, he saw Cora in a beautiful little winter dress, matching stockings and all, playing with two young boys. The boys were a year or so older, but playing with her and being gentle, as boys rarely did with girls.

Goren paused as the woman left him in the doorway. He glanced behind his shoulder and she gave him an encouraging smile. He wanted to reach for her hand and ask her to push him inside. The two figures watching the children didn't seem to notice him.

He took a weary step inside and exhaled softly. The new parents, holding hands tightly and nervously awaiting the appearance of their acquaintance's partner, turned and noticed the man in the long coat with the slightly scruffy face staring intently at the little girl kicking the red ball across the floor.

"Princess Cora," he smiled softly, and the woman's hand tightened drastically in her husband's.

Looking at him from behind a tangle of curly blonde hair, Cora threw her hands in the air. "Bah-hee!"

Squatting suddenly, he held his arms open, grinning happily. The little girl ditched her playmates and threw herself into his collar bone, squealing in animated excitement. Tipping her onto one leg, he pinched her stomach very gently, eliciting a delighted giggle and a grab at his hair. She pulled, as she always did, gingerly but insistently. He blew a raspberry on her exposed stomach and set her on her feet again, sitting with a quiet confidence where he had squatted. She climbed on his lap, pushing his coat off his shoulders.

"Stay!"

"I will, for a while." He looked at his watch. "It's my lunch hour. I can stay for about an hour, maybe longer."

A hand fell into his line of vision. "Kyle Matthews," a voice trailed down into Goren's ear. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Detective."

He reached up and shook the hand, never breaking his stare with Cora, who was digging through his coat pockets. She unearthed his badge, which he'd tucked away, and showed it to her interested cohorts.

"Robert Goren." He introduced himself properly, releasing the man's hand. "And likewise."

Rearranging Cora's slightly tousled dress, he glanced at the teary-eyed wife and smiled compassionately. "She seems to be getting along pretty well with your sons."

"They love her to death." She laughed. "They were devastated to hear we were bringing home a little girl, of course, but they love her like crazy now." She knelt beside her husband and Goren, who was cross-legged on the floor with Cora. "I heard her sister was arrested for murdering her father."

"That's true. The trial is pending, but she was arraigned—they're going to trial to lessen her charges and get some psychiatric help for the siblings." Goren grimaced weakly, resting his hand atop Cora's head. "Her mother was an accomplice."

"I can't imagine what damage they've done to her."

"If it doesn't scar you, it's easily left in the past where it belongs. I know firsthand." He felt a little twinge in his stomach; he'd felt it necessary to bond with the girl, he understood now, because he knew what a girl like her would need in her situation. When he'd immersed himself in books to get away from the shame and fear, he'd had someone there, always someone different, to hand him a new book and a new hobby. His mind, which never shut off, was in constant motion and never stayed on one subject. Cora was the same way now. She was always doing something. Painting, watching television, playing with the ball, hiding from him in his apartment, singing to him when there was silence for too long, and rubbing paint on his clothes when he ignored her. He had a pair of jeans with tiny purple handprints on them, just below the knee. His hair, the day following her departure from his apartment, had made the water in his shower run green for several minutes before he finally got rid of all the traces of art.

"She particularly enjoyed your letter." Erin continued, allowing her boys to rush past her with the kickball just a few steps ahead. "We wondered if we might have a picture? With you and her?"

He squirmed, not particularly certain what that may help Cora accomplish, but complied. After all, a few nights of baby-sitting didn't qualify him as a parent, and they seemed to have gotten a handle on the girl in a remarkable amount of time. Removing his coat, which Cora had pushed off his shoulders, he sat, still cross-legged, holding her on his lap and trying to summon the energy to smile.

The woman from the front desk had returned with a Polaroid camera and a huge grin. She seemed to notice his gun at his hip, and the badge Cora was holding, entranced by it and enthralled by Goren's mere presence. She stood on his left thigh and leaned into his neck, hugging him tightly. He hugged her back a moment and turned her around, standing her on his thigh still. She held his badge tightly in her left hand, her right arm thrown about his neck, her fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt.

"Who's this, Cora?" The woman asked, her camera at the ready.

"Bah-hee!" She replied with a huge smile, and then looked at him. "He let me paint his a petty pitchure."

Sheepishly allowing a grin to spread over his face, he watched Cora face the woman with a similarly pleased smile. The flash went off, and just as Goren prepared to put her down and let her go play with her new brothers, she turned, planting a wet, two-and-a-half-year-old kiss on his cheek, sitting heavily in his lap again. She held his badge up.

"Freeze, scum!"

He laughed, tossing his head back, and felt another flash. The woman handed the new parents a photo, and pressed an undeveloped one into Goren's hand, winking as she exited. He put it in his coat pocket, distracted when Cora dragged him to a plastic children's table to illustrate her drawing of him in crayon form.

He was as tall as the house in the background, and serious looking. She drew a wide belt with an oblong, black shape sticking out here and there, representing the gun and other things he'd had with him the majority of the time they'd spent together. She drew a box with a tree in it, and he recognized a television. As fascinating as children were, he noticed she drew him without a smile, but grappled for his attention. She loved putting a smile on his face.

"That's you." She said plainly, a serious look on her face, as if it were her turn to educate _him._ She drew a little girl in a dirty sweatshirt with big, curly yellow pigtails. "And that's me."

"What's that?" He pointed to the scribbles she put beside the door she'd drawn at the edge of the page.

"The bad." She replied simply, tilting her head to the side with a slight smile. "Shut outside."

He touched the top of her head again. "Are you scared of it?"

"No." She drew a smile onto his face. "I'm good. The bad stays out because you shut it out and I made it good."

"You were never scared?"

She shook her head, her hair flailing over her face in untamed glee. "Nope. I'm a big girl."

"Do you mind if we go to the bookstore?" He asked the couple watching he and the little one interact. "I just want…grab—just to grab a couple books for her."

"Oh, you don't have—"

"I know." He lifted her up as he had done so many times before. "I don't get opportunities like this very often. My boss had to talk me into coming out here—I wanted to prove I wasn't hurting over her getting adopted." He felt a smile cover his face again. "I knew it was the best thing for her."

"Where we go?"

"Einkaufen." He replied and poked her tiny tummy with a popping noise.

"Ein-coffin." She repeated, raising her eyebrows.

"Shopping." He offered and shrugged his coat on one arm at a time, grinning at the two little boys being dressed by their mother. "Just a couple books."

She made a face, clutching his collar with one hand, his badge still in the other. "But won't read them?"

"Some other time. Pretty soon you'll be reading them all by yourself." He accepted her jacket from her father and helped her put it on. "And you can read them to me."

"Really?" Her eyes got very big.

"I promise." He led the four other out the door and down the block where a locally owned bookstore was open and totally empty. He browsed the shelves while Cora sang softly, her words totally made up, playing with his badge and pushing it against his temple with a squishing sound now and then.

"Looking for anything in particular, Bobby?" The owner leaned against a near shelf, an amused smile on his face. "I don't carry a lot of children's books."

"I'd like _The Divine Comedy_ by Dante, and an anthology." He licked his lips, looking at the glossy-paged copies he was poring through. "Hans Christian Anderson, or Brothers Grimm…"

"You're starting her on Dante and the Brothers Grimm?"

"Dante is for when she's older. I want the other translation, too." He looked at Cora with a smile. "With the engravings. If she reads the 'Paradiso' first, she'll be inspired, to say the least. She loves painting and coloring."

"Here, I have both of those in here." He unearthed a couple heavy, leather-bound books and blew dust off the tops. Cora sneezed and buried her germ-covered face into Goren's neck, giggling at the sound of her own sneeze.

"Where on earth did you pick up a toddler, Bobby?" The owner grinned as he rang up the purchases.

He smiled in return and reached for his wallet. "She picked me up."


	9. Nymphomania

_Author's Note: _Uh oh...the plot thickens like a well-made milkshake!

* * *

"Are you impressed with my buddies?" Eames bounced up to him as he exited the elevator, his coat draped over his arm. He nodded, his face lost in thought. Eames sighed and sat back at her desk, chewing over the last of the first half of her turkey sandwich.

Goren helped himself to the other half. "They were nice."

"Hey!"

"I spent my last nickel on Dante's _Divine Comedy._" He gestured to himself, tossing his nose in the air. "She will be an intellectual if I have my say-so."

"There's your big heart showing again." Eames complained. "At my appetite's expense!"

He handed back a quarter of the sandwich, the other part already in his mouth as he chewed it over.

"Enjoy it. Bastard." She pointed to his coat. "What's that on your badge?"

He looked at the Polaroid falling out with the badge he'd stuffed inside as Cora gave him a final hug and skipped off with Nick and Kurt, her new brothers. He pulled out both, holding his badge up with a smirk.

"This is my badge. It makes me a cop."

"Double-bastard." She reached for the photo. "I meant that!"

He held it just out of her grip, wrinkling his nose. "The woman at the center took it because the Matthews family wanted a snapshot of Cora and her buddy." He indicated himself. "She took two photos."

"Here, I have an extra frame…" She fished around in the top drawer of her desk. "For Polaroid photos only. I don't have many of that type of picture, so I have an extra frame…"

Goren dragged his suspicious eyes off his partner and into the photo where he saw his own laughing face tilted away in mirth, his smile enormous, showing all his teeth. On his lap, Cora sat, looking quiet and pleased with herself, holding his badge in front of her proudly, her chin up just a smidgen. The background and position of anything else seemed unimportant. The brief meeting came flooding back and he felt his nose start to wrinkle to stifle an impending smile.

"Here we are." Eames placed a plain blue plastic frame in front of him. The hole in the front was perfectly sized for a Polaroid. He gave her another suspicious, slightly uneasy look, and then succumbed, sliding the photo into the frame and setting it in the middle of the junk that collected around the edge of his desk where it touched Eames'. Her smug, amused stare forced him back into his work.

"We can close this one."

"You're a bit brash." Goren replied, shifting and removing his jacket. "We have motive and means. We don't have proof of either."

"Receipt proves he bought her the dress. Helps us with the warrant for the affair. Helps us he ran from us when we tried to question him. It helps us further she was killed with a sock and not a shoelace."

"Because he has a nervous disorder that makes it impossible for him to wear anything that ties up." Goren gestured to a tie. "In elementary school he played with the knot on his tie so much he nearly strangled himself during quiet time. He was the only kid in his school who didn't have to wear one."

"Okay, so why can't we interrogate the bastard and be done with him?" Eames looked at her watch. "Another hot date tonight?"

"Yes," he said in a short voice, turning a page over and skimming the report from the morgue once more for anything he'd missed.

"What's on the agenda?"

"Well, I don't plan to run into you again." He looked up, a playful grin sprayed over his face. "You or Barek."

"We didn't _follow_ you. Get over yourself." She snorted, tapping her pen on her desk, searching for the right words. "Carolyn saw you two by the fountain when we left Bernie's. We stopped in Lola's to see if she had seen you or not."

Goren nodded, distracted by the bruising on the neck. It had proved a sock had been the weapon, but it looked to him now, with his head tilted to the side almost comically, a frown taking over his entire face, that the death had been started and stopped several times.

"She was negative on the rape kit and no evidence of consensual sex, right?" He flipped over several sheets, needing to remind his eyes of the words Danielle had explained to him earlier in the two weeks before.

"Right. She was a modest girl." Eames smiled. "What are you onto, Sherlock?"

"He was too timid to kill her. I think he—his neck gave him…he can't play with knots or ties. Strangling her would remind him of his incident back—school." He gnawed on his lower lip a split second and glanced at his watch, wincing and looking torn. "Come here." He bent and kicked his shoes off and pulled off his sock.

"Oh, no you don't!"

"Eames, please, new shoes and socks. We didn't do a lot of running around today. I'll buy you bath lotion and help you forget this even happened." He held his sock, eyebrows furrowed in his plea. "It'll help the case."

"The case?"

"The case, I swear."

She extracted a hair band from her desk drawer and put her hair on top of her head in a tangled mess, finding herself wishing dearly his sock stank to high hell so she would at least have a good excuse to wring his stupid neck when he was done with all this.

Hopping on the desk, she laid herself across it gingerly, mocking the pose of the girl they'd found dead in a hotel bedroom. "I'm ready, maestro."

"Her legs were like this…" He gently pushed her legs an inch or so farther apart and rested his fingertips on the surface of her desk, remembering doing the same to hover above the dead girl innocently and observe her dying expression.

"Arms were up." She made a slightly Jesus-esque pose and fixed it, bending her elbows more drastically. "Spread wide but collapsed from elbow to wrist at the upper arm." She crumpled like a butterfly.

Goren hopped the desk and replaced his fingertips, which had rested an inch above her knees, between her legs, with his right knee. He pushed some of her photos and coffee mugs onto his desk and swung his other leg to her hip, sliding it around until he found his leverage. Pushing his hands on either side of her neck, he stretched the sock carefully over her throat.

"Blech!"

"Shh," he adjusted four times to accommodate the elastic of his weapon before Eames gave him a visual signal she felt pressure on her throat.

"The cooperation level of his weapon alone would merit the pattern of bruises. He couldn't lift his hands off her equally to adjust." Goren demonstrated lifting up to tighten the sock between his hands. "He'd…risk her running away. But he couldn't stand hurting her. He had to adjust. He hovered like this so he wouldn't hurt her. He has personal space issues?" He realized just how close to choking Eames he was after a moment.

She smiled at him carefully. "Sounds like he's easier to rip apart than we figured, huh?"

"Well, if you were to…let's scheme." He moved the sock away and rose up so he was kneeling on her desk, Eames still spread out over her papers lazily. "If I left him holding some coffee somehow, and you took it from him and accidentally got some scalding hot coffee on your hand, he might…he would most likely overreact in his apology. The guilt would overwhelm him as his guilt over his lover's death eats at him now. He can't stand what he did, but he knew it was necessary to him."

"I see how it is." Jenny dropped her army green messenger bag next to Goren's desk, sitting in his chair with a playful smile on her face. "Staying late at the office, boy-o?"

"Making my boss happy." He quipped back and slid off Eames' desk, helping her up. "How late am I?"

"Ten minutes. I was in the neighborhood and saw a familiar SUV." She indicated her bag. "I've got permission from the big man to work two different clubs. It'll actually cut down my hours to work two part-time jobs instead of one full-time."

"Where?"

"Lola's and the Back Door." She watched Bobby pick his jacket off the coat rack and pull it on one shoulder at a time. As she pulled her eyes away, she picked up his photo of Cora. "Finally visit the kid?"

"Yep." He reached for his portfolio and Jenny pointed to his bare foot. "Sock, darling?"

"Oh, right!"

"I don't know if you'll want it." Eames replied in a toying voice. "It was all over my nasty neck."

He made a face at her and pulled it on, stuffing his shoe back on as he did so. "Just gather all your stuff for tomorrow's interrogation. Tease me all you like—that was valuable idiocy."

"It snowed today." Jenny remarked, staring at the ceiling while she spun in Bobby's chair. "It looked so pretty. Everything was covered in snow for a few hours, and then it all melted away again."

"Look, we gotta go, Alex." He looked at his desk, which was in order once he sorted his portfolio back into his piles and zipped them away. "Are we good?"

"Yeah." She removed her hair from the ponytail she'd haphazardly thrown it into.

"Okay," Bobby looped his arm around Jenny's waist and bent for her bag, handing it to her. "We're off."

She stepped in front of him, walking backwards a moment. "Ten days to Christmas, Bobby!"

"Really? God, time has been totally out of my control lately, and normally I'm so good at manipulating it…"

Eames blinked as they disappeared into the elevator. She knew it was strange to see him dating someone this long, but she felt at a loss she couldn't tell if they'd slept together or not. The first date had been separated from the second by a week of busywork at the police station. The new case, started just days after Jenny and Goren's first date, had overlapped the second date. It was now December fifteenth, and they'd known each other a grand total of sixteen days. Eames marveled in how socially inept the pair must be to function so willingly together, and found herself envying how much of Goren's time was devoted to the girl.

"Bastard." Eames collected her coat with a pout.

* * *

"Hand me a spatula, luv." Jenny's hair, tied back in a loose ponytail, was starting to fall out and was collecting in a slight fringe around her face. Bobby reluctantly pulled himself from her back and fetched her the utensil, handing it to her and resuming his position with his arms wrapped around her waist while she slaved over a skillet in his kitchen.

"Ever had this before?"

"Not made from scratch, but yes, I've had falafels before." He kissed the back of her neck and touched the second tattoo he'd just so recently discovered there. "What's the story on this splash of ink?"

"That's my first one." She turned a slightly warm face to him, blotting at the beginnings of sweat on her upper lip while the flame on his gas stove roared and popped hot oil. "It's Chinese for 'imagine.'"

"And the mark on your arm?"

"It's just an Old English thing. Back in the day when the pagans gathered they put this three-pronged mark on the door of the place they'd meet in." She tilted her head back, resting her neck on his chest. "The Mother, the Father, and the Child. All three necessary."

"I've never seen it before." He replied, touching the back of her neck carefully. "It resembles the pentacle in ways, though."

She nodded, touching wavy hair trickling down her left cheek. "I wanted it that way."

"Should I be taking the other stuff out of the fridge?" He had a tone of voice which begged the request to be denied so he could remain behind her, holding her to his stomach and lethargic with contentment.

"You should. It can't be too cold or it won't spread easily." She turned off the burner. "We're ready."

While Jenny spooned their entrée onto a serving plate, Bobby put the Mediterranean sauce she'd made on the table along with a bottle of pomegranate based wine. As he placed glasses and the like out, he noticed the movement in the kitchen had stopped. He faced his stove and saw Jenny sitting on his counter beside the dish of falafels, an amused if not seductive smile on her face. Her legs, crossed in a very ladylike manner, were visible through rips in her jeans. The bellbottoms at the bottom were stained with paint and varnish from her days working in a guitar shop. She uncrossed her legs and opened her arms. He crossed his kitchen floor in three steps, pinning her again his cabinets with a resounding, hollow noise.

Her arm leapt up and tangled fingers into his hair, pulling him away for a gasp of air. Bobby let the pause continue while she rested her cheek against his shoulder, her face turned away. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. A physical embodiment of tension lifted from Bobby's chest and he felt his hand, balanced on the small her back, slide over the bare patch of skin left from her tank top pulling away from her jeans. The slight brush of skin to skin contact brought Jenny out of his shoulder.

"The wonderful thing about all of this? They eat it in the deserts. It keeps just fine when it's warm and not…piping hot or cold." She lifted her legs and wrapped them around his hips. "Dig it?"

"Groovy." He replied, poking fun at her a moment before her hand left his shoulder and slid down his chest to his stomach. She paused only a moment there before resting her thumb on his belt buckle, her eyes locked on his.

"I'm so terrible. I want my dessert first."

"I think I can do that." He lifted her off his counter, surprised with how light she felt, and carried her into his bedroom, unafraid of leaving his door open. The lights from the kitchen filtered in and destroyed the ambience. The few dates they'd enjoyed the past two weeks had moved things along at a fantastic rate. In the scale of things, Bobby assumed just over a week of wooing from first date to sex was okay, especially when this was the sixth "date" they'd called. His showing up at the Back Door to see if she was playing and sharing a drink with her didn't count, at least in his mind.

She had a front-clasping bra. A flick of his wrist, and it was gone. He stared, his chest locked around a half a breath.

The food on the table, cooling, had filled the house with beautiful and foreign smells. Jenny radiant in a relaxed sort of way, he removed her sweater upon entering his house, revealing a plain cotton tank top as well as a second set of straps which belonged to her bra. She seemed excited to be cooking a meal for him, to return the favor of their last date. The date before when she'd all but jumped in his arms to express her childish glee at the gesture.

A kiss smacked Bobby out of his reverie, and he closed his eyes, reaching blindly for her jeans. His belt was undone, and his slacks were following. The shirt, which he'd untucked and unbuttoned, was being shoved down his shoulders. Her hand paused on his undershirt, feeling a heartbeat. The kiss grew deeper and he fumbled his delicate work again, resting his fingers against her stomach.

"Jenny," he pulled her hair carefully but not gently, trying to articulate. She removed her hair from the hair band and it spread over his pillows. He smelled her perfume open up out of the dampness of her just barely sweating body, and her shampoo wafting out of her hair, which had just recently showered down again. The texture, smells, and sights were almost overwhelming. He let out a low groan and pushed his face into her neck, feeling his clothes simply fall off his body.

Her panties, adorned with a small blue bow at the front, were lost, and the lights in the kitchen flickered a little, humming quietly in the moment of silence. A giggle echoed out of the bedroom.

"Bobby, cut it out—"

He pulled his face out of her neck and uneasily brushed her hair away, observing the bright red splotch left from his moment of carelessness. Catching sight of her again, he felt his eyes widen and then fall shut. He spread her legs, noticing how the business in the gesture was totally eradicated with Jenny, and gingerly rested part of his weight on her. She seemed to relish the feel of him pressing her into his bed, and threw her legs around his hips again, her arms already locked around his neck. A kiss touched his temple, and her tongue snaked around his ear. He hissed, uncertain if it were pleasant or not.

His cell phone, muffled in his pocket, rang twice before the caller gave up, almost guilty to be interrupting. If Bobby had heard it, he had ignored it. He sank into his moment of carelessness, giving his body away to his body's intentions rather than letting his mind try to fight its way to the forefront. His lips locked around Jenny's, commanding a kiss from her, and drawing her out of lazy position beneath him, so clearly leading him somehow. She was lifted, propped against extra pillows, and smashed into them when Bobby shifted again to hold her against him again.

Jenny let out a low-pitched moan a moment later, and Bobby's voice joined hers in a toneless harmony. A shaky gasp worked out of one of them, echoed by the other, and then repeated again. He was reminded again of how light and small she had seemed only recently. Jenny was clutched to him for her very life, somewhere between life and death in a place only she seemed to reach, her head thrown back in ecstasy. There was nothing better for his ego. She was twenty-eight, in his bed, cooking for him, holding him, and in the throes of passion because of him. An inexplicable male pride overtook his senses and weak growl grew into a slight roar. He didn't care if Bronson followed him to his bedroom the next time she came over. Hell, he didn't care if Eames and Barek followed him on another date. Her artistic passion overrode any negatives to the situation. Her fingernails dug into his shoulder.

"Bobby, whoa!" She pushed harder on his shoulder. "Bobby!"

He looked at her, alarmed, falling away from showing off to Bronson and back into his apartment. "What?"

"You there?" She laughed.

He leaned up, kissing her. "Oh, God, I hope I am."

* * *

They sat around his kitchen table at two in the morning, eating cold Mediterranean food and enjoying it while Jenny took to explaining the finer points of guitar to him. Bobby sat in his boxers, feeling sleepy and well-rested at the same time. His ears were still hot from physical activity, and Jenny looked very much as if she'd just spent the past few hours holed up with a man and a bed. Her hair, a total mess and tangle, was pulled up in a half-hearted bun. Her bag, left on the floor, was spilling music and chords as well as recent song forays.

She had her panties on, and his shirt from earlier that day pulled on, buttoned once between her breasts, just barely keeping her decent. She had pulled her legs up onto the chair and was curled in it, chewing a falafel and holding a glass of pomegranate wine in her other hand.

"The key for me always started with automating the strumming patterns of acoustic strumming songs and working on singing over it when I could play without thinking at all. Unfortunately the technique transcends to other things. Like conversations. I can carry on entire conversations without having a thought go through my head." She tilted her head to the side. "Right now I'm thinking about how good chocolate sounds to me. While talking about guitar."

Bobby took her glass of wine and sipped out of it, replacing the glass to her hand without a word, still too sleepy and happy to feel like he had to respond.

Jenny fell silent, running her hand down her leg as she chewed her last bite of falafel. Bobby watched her fingers trail up and down her shin a moment before her arm retracted to her stomach. Her thumb then traced up her breastbone to her chin. He met her eyes and smiled.

"Sleepy, luv?" She yawned. "I'm knackered."

"There are some words you say." He murmured in his quiet, contemplative voice. "English words. Things we don't say in America anywhere."

"You should hear my mother talk. She still has a touch of London in her voice. I hung out with the scruffs too much as a young hoodlum." She pulled a face, letting her legs down from the seat of her chair. "I have a lovely mix between London." She drew herself up in her chair and stuck her chest out, Bobby's shirt spread so her bellybutton and cleavage were the main attraction, drawing Bobby's eyes out of her expression and into her anatomy.

"The London's Queen English, where everyone has a proper pronunciation and no letter is dropped except the occasional R. A's are sometimes replaced with U's." She then slouched over, her right leg rising to rest on the seat again, accentuating her panties and bare stomach. "Whereas the upper regions accentuate dropped letters left and righ'. No H's, no R', sometimes R's are thrown into words they 'ave no business bein' in. G's at the ends of words are 'ardly existent, and 'me' beats the shite out of 'my' and takes 'is place."

Bobby stood sleepily and walked to her, holding out his arm expectantly. Jenny took the hand he offered and allowed him to take her back to his bed. They spread out beneath his sheets and slept again.

* * *

It was 3:37 in the morning, just an hour and a handful of minutes after they had finished dinner and crawled back into bed when Bobby felt Jenny shift and turn over in his arms. He felt vague, as if between two planes of consciousness, and then felt his eyes open with a start as she pushed her open palm against his inner thigh.

"So you aren't a mummy!"

He let out a horrible groan. "Cuuuuuuurse, cuuuuuuurse!"

"C'mon," she nudged him harder with her shoulder, resting her chin on his collar bone. "Jenny wants to play. No excuses."

"What excuses?" He half coughed, taking her wrist and leading her hand away. "Don't you have work tomorrow? I know I do. There's a guy in lock-up I have to interview. My partner is already pissed I've been…"

"In a better mood?" Jenny rolled over him, removing his shirt, which she'd left on, rolling her eyes. "You only have one first night together, Bobby."

He reached up, grabbing one of her breasts, and felt his eyes start to close. "Oh my God, I'm going to fall asleep like this."

"I'll bet you ten bucks you won't be able to walk in the morning." She grinned and tightened her legs around him.

* * *

Detective Goren, the secretary noted, was a full hour early for work for the first time in nearly two weeks. She saw him whistling as he dragged himself to his desk today, his eyes drooped in utter exhaustion. He had the case files under his arm, a yawn spread over his cheeks as he slumped over the papers. He had forgotten to buy coffee, and he was sprawled over the files, reading them from between his forearms for a full three minutes before he lost his balance and fell into Dreamland.

When Eames arrived, she put her tote down and meandered into the break room for her morning coffee. Grabbing a second mug for her partner, she made her way back to her desk and sat down. After thirty seconds or so watching him lie at his desk, totally motionless, she picked up a handful of paperclips and threw them one at time, waiting for him to react.

He pulled his face out of his papers, a glossy morgue photo stuck to his cheek. Sending her something of an upbeat glare, he peeled the photo off and held it out to her.

"The burn victim isn't related. The person in the car has been handed to Barek and Logan."

"Oh, joy!" She gestured to his coffee. "Lifeblood, sir?"

The thought of forcing his body to jolt awake when it was so pleasantly buzzed from early morning sex repulsed him. He pushed the cup away. "I'm okay."

"Okay? Goren, tell me how many times you've fallen asleep at your desk when you aren't here at three in the morning?"

"I'm _fine,_ Eames." He shuffled papers and reached up, rubbing his forehead. "Where are my files on Whittaker?"

"We closed that case—"

"No, I kept his files."

"Maybe Deakins took them to Carver. They're arraigning Mrs. Whittaker today." Eames took up another paperclip and threw it at him. It struck his neck and he turned at her, rubbing the spot. There was something of a red mark there, almost like a rash or a flush. Eames wondered if her paperclip had been the culprit, but felt a smile creeping up on her face.

"You have a hickey, Detective." She grabbed his tie and pulled him closer, taking a big, happy whiff of his neck. "Smells like cherry lip gloss and cheap shampoo. Our perp is between twenty-five and thirty years old. She enjoys making friends with cops and seems to enjoy bad horror movies." She pushed his head to the side, observing the fading pink mark on his neck. "And she likes your ears, doesn't she?"

His head snapped up, a predatory grin on his face. "Well done, Miss Watson…now it's my turn." He lunged and grabbed her foot, yanking it onto the desk, tilting her in her office chair. She clutched her skirt together, holding her knees together in horror. He removed her small heeled shoe and pointed to her feet, which were sheathed in nylon.

"Your new beau likes toes? I never took you for that, Eames. I noticed you flaunting your feet, but I never guessed you get a toe-sucker—"

"Watch it, I'm halfway to kicking you!" Eames jerked her foot back and stuck her chin in the air. "And anyway, I'm not socially retarded."

He flipped open his copy of _Smithsonian Magazine_ and made a "Who, me?" face.

"Hey, Sherlock?" She pushed a stack of papers toward him. "I'm liking Mark for this one, but his sister may have been an accessory after the fact."

Goren rubbed his eyes. "I still have to interrogate him, don't I?"

"Sure do."

"Okay, I'll have him out of lock-up." He yawned again but didn't pick up the coffee Eames had brought him. "Maybe we can have a new case by tomorrow morning."

"Or you could wait until tonight at midnight or so and solve it and we could have the _whole day_ off!"

He smiled and touched his neck lovingly. "Something tells me Jenny wouldn't like that."

With what precious little he would give her, Eames let out a sigh of frustration and watched him put in the call to have their suspect shipped in to be interrogated.

* * *

"I have to go to work!" He attempted pushing Jenny off his chest again, and found it hard to force her when she tangled him in the sheets further.

"Oh, no, please?" She hugged him around the neck harder. "You have forty-five minutes to get from point A to point B, Bobby!"

"I have to hand in all my files so they can get our guy arraigned sooner. Then I sign some stuff, file my notes and evidence, and I can come home. Making me late may just keep me at the office longer." He found himself running a soothing hand up her spine, feeling her ribs expand to let out a sad sigh.

"They said it was going to snow today. Be home early, please?" She pushed a brilliant kiss onto his face. "And be mushy, and bring me flowers and a pony."

"While we're at it, how about you get dressed?" He pinched her butt carefully, sending her scooting toward the edge of the bed in girlish peril. "I know Brock expects you at work in ten minutes, Miss."

She stuck her tongue out. "And I know if I show up with my hair like this again he's going to thump you for beating me up again."

He rolled over her and kissed her neck. "Ugh, it's not me doing the beating up. I've never been this tired in my _life._"

Jenny cackled. "Yes, this is excellent. Soon you'll be bedridden and I'll have everything I want…"

"You'd jump a poor defenseless man's bones?"

"No!" She reached under the sheet and he twisted, anticipating her sneaky moves. "Just you."

"I'm going to work." He replied flatly and rolled away, looking for a pair of jeans he could put on to run into the office and fill in the paperwork. "A couple hours at the most."

"Okay. I have a four hour shift at the bakery." She draped herself over his back while he pulled on boxers and jeans. "And then we can go for a walk."

"A walk?"

"Yeah, through Central Park. I haven't been through in ages."

"Okay. Maybe we'll catch the first snow." He turned his head and accepted a kiss. "Lemme up."

She groaned and fell back in his bed, curled in the warmth his body left behind. "Bye, luv."

He pulled on a turtleneck and put on his shorter winter coat, smiling at her. "Bye."

At One Police Plaza, Bobby gathered all his paperwork and files, and found a hanging file and labeled it. He noticed how slow a day it was and appreciated the time off, especially as the sky darkened with impending the precipitation. The freezing cold weather warranted snow if not hail. Jenny was looking forward to the first heavy snow New York would encounter; she was the type to go spinning in the first snow of winter and first warm rain in spring. As whimsical and dreamy as she could be, Goren found himself attracted more and more to her intellectual side. In long conversations late at night, he found the depth of her insight and her soul intimidating and intriguing. He could lose himself in her brain, picking apart her contradictions and her values.

The day he'd visited his mother earlier in the week, she'd let him go alone without question. When he returned after the unusually satisfying visit, she'd explained to him the long years hating her perfectly healthy mother and the wasted time it wrought. She gave him a look which said she didn't mean to hurt him, but for a long time she would have rather had a mother in the mental hospital than her real mother, whom she blamed for her father's death. Goren didn't take her biting comment as an insult. He found it endearing she let him have his rough moments of loyalty and love with his mother, knowing it came from a place of understanding in her own heart.

"Not-guilty? She can't plead that, can she really, Carver?"

Bobby's ears half-perked but then his cell phone rang. Digging it out of his pants pocket, he sat at his desk and started signing evidence slips and legal papers.

"Goren."

"Detective Goren? This is Kyle Matthews…"

Goren lifted his shoulder, pinning the phone to his ear while he freed his right hand to sift through his notes, which all needed filing. "Good morning, Mr. Matthews—"

"Kyle, please."

"In that case, I'm Bobby." He stuffed the notes into the hanging file. "What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering…the eh, the social center wouldn't give us the home address for you, and Cora has…"

Goren felt his face twist a little, into an expression he didn't recognize. "You didn't let her talk you into spending any money on me, did you?"

"It's nearly Christmas, Det—Bobby. Alex told us you don't usually have family in during Christmas, and my wife said she picked it out all by herself…"

He sighed. "Tell you what; trade me. And give me her birthday."

Sticking the sticky note with Cora's birthday and current address to the picture frame on his desk, he released a small sigh and rested his head in his palm. His cell phone, balanced on the edge of his desk, rang.

"Goren," he sighed again.

"Look outside!" Sang out a happy voice with loud noises in the background. He peered down the row of cubicles around him to the cloudy window. A slight swirl of snow went by the window.

"We're right on the _edge,_ Bobby! How close are you to done?"

"Just a few more minutes."

There was a shout in Deakins' office. "How long do you have to prepare a case? She can't go to trial before Lucy Whittaker—"

"She's exercising her right to a speedy trial, Captain. We have a week and a half to compile a witness list and get our evidence." He released an annoyed breath as he stormed from Deakins' office. "I don't know what they're going to pull…"

Bobby looked at his watch. "Twenty minutes, I can meet you at the bakery."

Jenny let out a sigh. "I always loved this time of the year. Didn't you, as a kid? Days from Christmas, waiting for the big snow? A couple inches melting away every morning never counted. It's freezing cold. I want to go _ice skating_ and have a _snowball fight._" She popped her lips. "My mom would always make us a sweater."

Bobby leaned back in his chair. "Fifteen minutes."

"I'd make hot chocolate and help everyone make popcorn balls…"

"Ten minutes?"

"And there's always a big, roaring fire at home. And a big bed."

"I'm gone." He picked up his files. "I'm out the door. See? Walking."

She purred. "Excellent, Mr. Goren. I'll meet you outside my occupational hazard in five."

He hung up and shook his head, stifling a smile. Eames, who had just entered the building in similar casual wear indicated his neck and made a kissing motion. He pointed to her toes and made a sucking motion before poking his head into Deakins' office.

"All my paperwork for the Jane Dwyer victim."

"Great." Deakins rubbed his face, looking quite bewildered. "Thanks, Bobby. Are you off, then?"

He stood uncomfortably. "I had plans, yes."

Deakins pointed to his chair. "Just one minute, I swear."

Bobby sat heavily, leaning forward on his knees to anticipate bad news. "What's going on?"

Deakins shrugged, letting out a weak laugh. "I don't know. It's not good, though. Aaron Whittaker's wife is pleading not guilty to being an accomplice for her husband's murder. How she can have a defense is beyond me, and it's too far from trial to get the information. Carver says he won't have a witness list until the day after Christmas…"

"She can't…"

"She's digging her own grave, from what I can tell." His eyes peered over his lower eyelids wearily. "There's whispers," he indicated his phone, "of a police screw-up."

Bobby's defensive side leapt up in flaming glory. "No, we didn't do anything wrong. All the search warrants were properly served, we didn't search outside the bounds. She refused to talk with her kids when they were interrogated. She didn't put up a fuss when we took Cora—she told Jenny Whittaker wouldn't be showing up for his appointments ever again." He blinked. "How could she get off after driving him, bleeding to death, to a public washroom and putting his head in a toilet?"

Deakins released a sigh meant to excise himself of all thoughts of the case. "We'll leave the legal work to Carver. Just know the files are still under open investigation and you and Alex may be under some scrutiny. I'll explain all this to her later." He then indicated his calendar. "As you know, my wife is planning another Christmas party this year…"

Bobby dreaded showing up, which he always did, for Deakins' wife and for Deakins, who liked to see him stop in for a couple of drinks and then be on his way to watch the History Channel back home. Still, this wasn't just a formal invite with mention of quiche and good conversation.

"She's been looking for entertainment and my cousin…"

"Cap, no—"

"Would you give me her number, please?" Deakins sighed. "I've been getting cold meals for a day or so now, and it's all because I didn't want to push this on you. Well, you can call my wife and tell her you're too embarrassed to let your girlfriend play or let her call and hire her." He held out the phone, demanding an answer.

Bobby lifted his eyebrows. "Alex told you she was my…_girlfriend?_"

"Don't sound so disgusted." Deakins laughed. "I saw you picking her up from the bakery about a week ago. After you visited your mother."

He wrinkled his nose and gave his boss a withering look. "I'll tell her to give your wife a call tonight if she can sign herself off for the gig."

"This means you will have to stay for longer than twenty minutes." Deakins mentioned as Bobby started to rise.

"I know," he lamented quietly, and exited.


	10. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

_Author's Note:_ Some things make you grow up real fast, don't they?

My childhood hang-out burned to the ground this weekend.

* * *

The Act, he summarized mentally, was handy in all social situations. Apply a face, a name, and a story. Let the character speak. Never get in trouble. Be as charming or as shy as possible. Let the character talk. Except he couldn't be charming when he wasn't in his Act, and he couldn't be entirely shy in it, either. There had to be a mix, as there was in reality. So he allowed himself to drop any façade for a change and let true emotion and reaction roll over him.

A smile washed through him, resting on the screen of his face. Jenny ran up to him, her arms thrown out in the morning snow, a dot of flour on her nose. She jumped up and wrapped her legs around him, squealing obnoxiously into his neck. He laughed, a loud, booming sort of laugh, knowing his cab was waiting. The subway had become almost empty as of late. Bobby was going to take her to Central Park, and then to bed. He hadn't felt this carefree in quite a while. Innocence restored. He settled and kissed her cheek before peeling her off and escorting her to his cab.

The walk was lazy and full of snow. The last of the squirrels and chipmunks were packing away their winter's spoils, and the few dogs out with their owners were going berserk trying to catch them all. The utter surrealism of the landscape knocked on Bobby's brain hard. He was walking, side-by-side, with a woman barely older than half his age, who had hardly let him out of his own bed when she could help it. Her independence, however prominent, was almost fractured by the frequency of her visits. He assumed it had been a while since she had found a guy like him, and the thought, though ambiguous at first, now warmed him from the inside out.

As they walked by the memorials in the park, the snow falling on a few statues and shrubs, the latter of the two just as bright and green as it was in summer, he dared to let his hand brush over hers. The gesture wasn't lost on her brilliant intuition, and she gripped his thumb the next time his hand swung by.

"What kind of music do you listen to when you're not in the Back Door?" She asked quietly as the sounds of the city fell into a dull roar.

Bobby's fingers tightened. "Mostly classical. My buddy Lewis likes to force Lynyrd Skynyrd and Kelly Preston on me now and then, though."

"You poor thing." She shook her head in sad way. "Your first experiences outside Dvorak and Beethoven should not be 'Swamp Music.'"

"You know Dvorak?"

"He was the reason I learned to read music." She sent him a quirky smile, a half smile of sorts. "I started to learn it when I was young, but I heard John Lennon never learned to read and I just…well, I gave two shits and a flying broomstick about learning anything."

"Until?"

"Until I met a boy with impeccable grades who thought I was smart, and funny, and wondered why I didn't use my smarts to at least fool everyone into thinking I was smarter. My grades certainly didn't reflect my intellect, as he put it. I ran away from home with my daddy's guitar; if I didn't sell it for money, I was going to learn to play it. And I saw a score for Dvorak's symphonies…" She fixed a dangling earring as it flopped over the collar of her sweater again. "So I went home, settled down, and took a few tests. I passed my classes. I quit fighting my mother. I went to college. I graduated with a double-major."

"In?" He prompted, intrigued.

"Composition."

"Both?"

"Music and literature." She twiddled her fingers. "I knew from the start I'd make a living out of writing something. Amusing story or uplifting ballad, I really stopped caring."

"Why do you do music now?"

"Because it's more infectious. I like the energy. I'm not…mature—that's not right, maybe?" She turned thoughtful eyes on him. "Reading a book and connecting with the subject matter is something I feel I'm not…ready to do. I'm not ready to be intimate with my audience like that. I want the fast, simple, infectious return energy. I don't trust my writing enough to let the reactions be a subdued feeling or an action. I just…react better to others' reactions to my actions on stage."

"Everything is a reaction."

She shook her head. "My music is my own catalyst. No one sparks it. It is mine."

"Fair enough." He admired her belief even if it confused him.

"And you? You and police work?"

He felt a slight shadow of doubt pour over him. She had idols, of sorts, even though she didn't aspire to _be _them. He had his books. Bobby had his books and his smarts, and maybe enough of The Act to get him by.

"Bobby?" She tugged him to a stop next to a park bench, hopping onto the slippery top and wobbling, her calm face directed to him.

He sighed, holding her hips steady, watching her gaining her balance. "I was in army intelligence before. I've always been in intelligence one way or another. I've always had my brain—some days it was all I had, and there's always that fear it's not quite my own either, none of it would be under my control then. What I can control with what I know I have, is what I am assigned. I will find something somewhere to help and serve justice. And I live off the righteousness as much as I worry." He realized how the thoughts had come out of him without a pause or stutter. One interruption to better his word choice and he was off as if he'd been waiting for someone to ask him the right question.

"You're brilliant." Jenny replied softly her eyes focused lightly on his face, taking in the whole shape of him, ignoring the details.

The slight, ambiguous smile Bobby possessed returned, touching his eyes and lighting them with interaction, but dulled his face. All he could say in return—

"You're beautiful." He touched her cheek, looking at her forehead where a snowflake had melted, leaving a small drop of water. Focusing his eyes into it, he felt the meaning of his words soak through Jenny's ears.

"They opened the skating rink!" She pointed and he turned his head quickly, appreciating the leave of the moment, the moment to regain his surroundings. The sounds of New York City returned to his ears and he noticed the rink across from the park near Times Square had indeed opened its doors.

She had bent over him, hugging him from behind again. She kissed his left ear and he felt her sigh but didn't hear it.

"Do you want to skate?" He asked reluctantly.

"I want to spend time with you." She articulated clearly.

This opened him to a response. He hated analyzing the conversation, and shut off the front of his brain. "After we skate, could we stop and get your guitar? I want to hear the Joni Mitchell song you've been working on." There was a long pause while she kissed his ear again. "My boss wants to know if his wife could hire you for the squad Christmas party."

Her amorous attentions ceased. "Cop-party?"

"Cop-party."

"Eww."

"Easy money, and it's one of your buddies' cousins who recommended you."

"Are you talking me into it? By your tone and slouch I would have thought—"

"I want you to show them all how great a musician you are. I don't want to have to stand with the entire squad and talk cop-stuff over the holiday season. It's…I don't want to be that guy. The one who loves his job to the point he _is_ his job. I mean, I am my job, but that doesn't—"

"So, you want me to go and get easy money and show off to your friends, but you don't want to stay. Or let them rib you about me."

"They'd rib…Jenny." He turned, sending her a slight scowl. "I'll have you know I've caught nothing but crap since Eames caught you making eyes at me."

"Worth it?" She pushed her cheek against his.

"Yes." He replied smugly and sighed, rolling his eyes. "I bring you and guess what happens? There are four detectives and a boss there who gossip over the water cooler—gossiping like…mother hens and they just…"

"I'm sorry I'm so much bait for them." She giggled and pushed her hand against his chest. "But your misery isn't enough for me to let you out of my sight quite yet."

"Were you and Brock ever…did you ever date him?"

"Nope." She wagged her eyebrows happily. "Where'd you get that?"

"He's just…"

"My best friend?" She hopped down next to him, looking up at him proudly. "I've known him since I moved here from London. My friend who inspired me to be smart? Brock."

"And the other guy?"

"Andrew Finch. His cousin is your boss?"

"Jim Deakins?"

"That's the ticket." She pulled him toward the rink. "Anyway, he and I dated once or twice, but he's quite an asshole most of the time, and I gravitate away from assholes because I already have one and don't need to sleep with another." She made a pinching motion. "He's a bit of a letch, too."

Jenny bent, pulling a handful of paper money notes from her left shoe. Bounding up to the rental station, she planted herself between Bobby and the salesman. "Two pairs." She stepped on Bobby's foot when he stepped forward to protest.

"All right, you, miss?"

"Six and a half." She took the skates and looked back at Bobby expectantly.

He tilted his head a little. "Thirteen."

The man ambled away, seemingly not surprised, to the back of the little booth where all the men's larger sizes were kept.

Jenny eyed his feet. "Water-ski much on those boats?"

"I didn't hear you complaining."

"Oh, no…" She let out a little sigh and leaned against him. "Never complain, sir. I never will."

He put an arm around her waist, enjoying the banter, and then accepted a pair of black hockey skates sharpened for death. He could picture himself now, with his butt planted in the nearest snowbank, Jenny trying to free him without wetting herself in laughter.

"I haven't skated in years." She suffered his incredulous stare. "I hate going alone, and Brock and Andy are terrible about group activities. Rats, I tell you. Amy and I used to go before Lara got pregnant…"

"Have I met—?"

"Lara said you gave her your hankie on the bus once." Jenny put her shoes in the public shoe caddy after putting her extra money in her pockets. "Amy has contemplated committing a crime to meet you. She thinks Lara and I have a shared delusion…"

"What sort of knight in shining armor have you made me out to be?" He whined, kneeling in the snow to tie up his skates. "I hate standards of chivalry."

"If you didn't open a door for every woman you possibly could, I think you might explode." Jenny propped herself on his shoulder and put her second skate on. "But she got her knight from her own imagination. I only told her you were a cop and sweet. Lara added the bit about the smile."

"Smile?" He fluttered his eyelashes playfully, adding a grin with it. "What about it?"

"Here, fishy, fishy!"

"Jenny!"

"Just you have a nice smile!" She sat on his knee and drew him into a kiss. "Loosen up. I haven't said a mean word 'bout ya or to ya."

* * *

"Just take the picture." A cigarette fell to the floor and an Italian boot with cracked, water-spotted leather stomped it out. "A dozen, preferably. As much canoodling and the like as possible." A man wearing a hunter green knit ski cap adjusted a pair of similarly destroyed leather gloves and cracked a very even, Harvard-White set of teeth. "Send them to my offices."

The young man, looking uneasily through his telephoto lens, adjusted the focus. "Is he cheating on his wife?"

"No, but he's endangering somebody, all right. Just take the pictures and send to my office, all right?" The man lit another cigarette. "And don't breathe a word of this. The guy has ears around the Five Burroughs."

The young man visibly shuddered. "He looks…"

"Menacing? Can be. Don't get on the other end of a nasty glare of his." The man patted the photographer heavily on the back. "It's not blackmail; don't worry."

"I know." The man sighed uneasily. "But I can't help but feel this is _some_ kind of invasion of privacy…"

* * *

It was, as Bobby suspected, a total nightmare for the first few minutes. He managed not fall flat on his ass for a while, and then was cut off by a young boy chasing a hockey puck. After it skipped over his skate, the boy followed, simply hopping over both of Bobby's moving skates. He couldn't resist leaning away from the astounding spectacle, of course, and fell back, hitting the ground with a surprised expression.

Jenny, who caught her balance, turned, obviously wanting to keep her face neutral until he chose an emotion.

Twisting his face, he began to bawl as loud as he could. Releasing a laugh, Jenny glided over to him, pulling him up and dusting the ice flurries off his back. He sniffled, wiping at his face, pretending to be most upset, and allowed her to kiss his injury away. The boy who had jumped him shouted an apology as he skated by, but didn't make any sort of apology for checking out Jenny as he took his place at a makeshift face-off circle.

"Race ya?"

"You win." He sighed, and when she rolled her eyes to show her annoyance with his lack of enthusiasm, he exploded on what little balance he had. He felt he was all knees and elbows. But the muscle beneath the knees and elbows was doing its job. He was moving at a surprising speed toward the far snowbank. To his surprise, Jenny pulled ahead, her arms tucked behind her pleasantly. She looked over her shoulder at him, sending him a gleaming smile which reached her eyes and above. Pushing once more against the slick ice, he made it ahead of her and made a sudden stop before either of them could crash into the snowbank. Jenny seemed to make no move whatsoever, and after colliding with him, allowed herself to fall over him when he toppled into the snowbank.

"My ass is going to get wet and freeze off."

"Going to?" Jenny wagged her eyebrows.

"Lemme up." He gave her a weak shove, and then jerked her back, pressing her soft cheek against his forehead. Closing his eyes a moment, his nose switched on.

"Where do you buy myrrh these days?"

She pulled herself into his lap in the snowbank. "There's a little place on the outskirts of the city. They sell a lot of exotic imports. I love their incenses and perfumes."

He gave her another gentle shove. "Okay, really now. I won't pull you back. Lemme up."

She stood, giving him a pouted face before twirling off, her arms thrown in the air. He could tell she'd grown up around skating rinks. Just as the freezing sky turned gray again, the snow started falling heavily. Bobby stood, looking skyward, feeling the magical, alleviating sensation of a winter finally arrived. The lack of a white Christmas was worrying some of the younger children. The fickle weather, complete with warm gusts of wind from the south, had prevented even the ocean from chilling Manhattan and the Bronx. Now that the snow was falling, Bobby was confident it was going to coat the ground and stay through February.

After a couple lazy circles around the rink, avoiding hockey-minded hooligans as much as possible, Jenny tried to show Bobby a couple of ice-skating maneuvers. When he failed to execute, she moved onto a newer trick. One amazing spin later, and he collected his wits only to have a snowball smack him in the left shoulder.

Jenny slid around him in a circle, her legs opened in a sort of ballet dancer's poise, allowing her to circle him with a few flexes with the right muscles.

"You're hit, copper."

"So I am." He felt a pang of horror. "Oh, no, not him!"

"Who?" Jenny slid up to his side, leaning up to get his view on things. From over two heads in the distance, she could make out a man standing, his mousy brown hair all a mess while he fiddled with his ski cap.

"Who is it?"

"Another cop. Let's go, can we?" He took her hand and pulled her along the outermost edge of the rink.

Jenny let her head loll back. "_Already?_ Bobby—"

He turned around, skating backwards unstably. "Jenny, I will skate with you tomorrow and every day after if we can leave _right now._"

"For a cop you sure don't like confrontation."

"In my line of work, the right confrontation leads to the hospital."

"Okay, but we should stop and get some stuff for candied apples, or popcorn balls, or Christmas cookies." She shot him a shining look. "I love Christmas."

"For what?" He asked, truly interested and not meaning to pick her apart.

She shrugged, swinging him around so he was skating forward again. "For the good it can bring out in humanity."

Bobby held the small gated part of the skating rink open so Jenny could step out. "Did you go to church as a child?"

"Nope. Well, we'd meet some religious officials now and then, but they weren't Christian…"

"Was your family pagan?" He asked, again, only interested.

"My father only. My mother really didn't have a religion. She prayed to a nameless thing and put her life in its hands—so she says. My father really loved the pagan lifestyle with the love of nature and the women in power sort of thing." She flashed him a very careless smile, reflecting her obvious bias toward her father. "It was freedom as a child."

"Did you believe in the rites? The spring rituals and the coming of Cernunnos?"

She shrugged. "I actually…don't really think one way or another about God or anything of the sort. I figure if I was put here and given free will, I shouldn't be expected to spend my entire life worshipping or thinking about whatever it was that put me here. I'm here for me. I'm here for what I want to be here for, but I live for others because they make me happy." She shrugged again. "Sounds selfish, doesn't it?"

"You're not self-centered." He attempted.

She sent him a smile. "I'm pretty compassionate when I want to be. I'm a nurturer. It's in my DNA."

Bobby found his shoes had gravitated to the bottom of the pile he'd placed them in. Without another word, they removed their skates, changed into their shoes, and returned the skates. It was silent the entire way to his apartment, too, but her hand was in his, and it seemed conversational in itself, the way she squeezed his hand, unaware of it at all. The imaginary beat seemed to be to a song of the subconscious and he enjoyed feeling more than hearing.

"You can tell your boss I'd love to play the Christmas party."

As he hung up her coat in his entryway, he realized he felt somewhat elated about it. "Okay."

"Is it okay?"

"Yeah, it's fine."

She made a face, sitting on his sofa. "We forgot popcorn and hot chocolate."

"I guess we'll skip the documentary and go right to bed." He stood beside the sofa, his hands in his pockets, trying to look distracted.

"Guess so." She pointed to his TV listings. "I've seen it anyway."

"Me too." He bent and pulled her up and toward the bedroom.

* * *

Bobby took one look around the crowded, lighted squad room and winced. Every woman had worn her pearls; it was very close to a black tie affair. Just being in the room fed his desire to put on The Act and skip from couple to couple, person to person, and enemy to enemy for light chatter and shared drinks. He poured himself half a glass of Coke and topped it off with scotch, taking a relaxing sip out of it. The elevator indicated a new arrival, and when the doors opened, two young men spilled out carrying heavy musical equipment. Jenny's minions had arrived.

Helping with the equipment, he was aware of a slight apprehension. It was mostly from Eames and Deakins, but also from Carver, who looked like he hadn't been sleeping since being handed the Dwyer murder and the Whittaker puzzler.

"Hey!" Deakins hugged one of the two men, Andy. Bobby dusted his hands as the other, Brock, plugged in the equipment and used up a couple of six strips. After a few minutes with the Christmas music blaring from Deakins' stereo, Jenny arrived, dressed in an elegant red dress which touched the floor, a narrow and modest slit riding up to the top of her knee. She shed a simple black coat and adjusted her black shoes, looking flustered. Her makeup was light and natural looking. Her hair was combed and in a side part, giving her a classy and untouchable look. In contrast with her dress, her hair had darkened to nearly black.

"Hey," Alex reached over and pushed Bobby's mouth shut.

He licked his lips and pushed his drink into her hands, taking Jenny's guitar while she wrestled with her purse. Her _purse?_ He wondered if she'd emptied her tote into that tiny excuse of a handbag she'd brought.

"Good evening," he murmured, finding his voice soft and unmasked.

She turned, sending him a self-conscious smile. The dip in the front gave up a bit of her cleavage; his first assessment of her proved somewhat true. She didn't enjoy strangers getting a look down her top.

"Am I late?"

"No, everyone is just early." He gestured to her guitar. "Do you need help?"

"No, I've got everything. I just…I'm not sure how to move, quite, in this dress." She took a handful of it and spun. The extra lengths spun around her in a glorious flamenco kind of way. Her hair did a similar trick, and Bobby smiled, anticipating her break and putting on a shoddy recording of "White Christmas" or "The Christmas Song" and sharing a slow dance with her in that beautiful dress.

"Amy told me you'd have a heart attack if I came wearing my usual set clothes." She gestured to the slit and dip. "Hence my evening wear."

He felt a smile spreading over his face. "You look great. Don't worry about it. To be frank, you don't resemble a girl who plays in bars for a living, but it's fun to play dress-up sometimes."

"Save me a dance?" She accepted a stool from Andy and set her guitar out, her eyes never leaving his.

He pointed to the ceiling. "Let me do a mistletoe check."

She lurched out of the stool and kissed him on the cheek, sending him a devilish smile. "Consider the Christmas party ice cracked, luv. Forget the mistletoe."

Pushing her guitar into her arms, he touched her nose briefly. "Shine."

Carver leaned against Deakins' closed office door beside Eames and ran his fingers over his stomach, closing his eyes to enjoy the moment of rest.

"You okay? I have antacids—"

"It's not heartburn." He released a breath full of anxiety. "Tomorrow I have to hand in my prosecutor's witness list. All I have is Lucy Whittaker—a reliable witness for sure—and her brother Paul. Who just recently ate a pound of hamburger raw and had a dream he killed his therapist. Not to mention the raging wet dream he had about drinking her blood the following sleep therapy session…"

"It's okay, Carver. We have forensic evidence to link her. No matter what they have, we have forensics. The tests were redone just for this. They can't be lying." Alex looked over as Jenny adjusted her microphones. Andy and Brock had just left, and Deakins had abruptly cut the music. A soft chord played, she adjusted, and the guitar grew louder. She popped her tongue. It boomed. She adjusted.

"Evenin'," she smiled and nodded. A few gathered around her makeshift stage held up glasses and cheered.

"Do you know 'Free Bird?'"

"Mike!" Barek elbowed him and made a face at Jenny.

"It's a Christmas party. Rule of thumb—festive music for the first hour, drift into drunken debauchery, and end it with Foreigner." She patted her acoustic guitar. "I could settle for Skynyrd."

Carver ran his fingers over his mouth. "They have all but shouted it's a police screw-up, Detective. I'm almost certain it involves your partner."

"Bobby?" She laughed. "Look, he doesn't go by the book a hundred percent of the time, but he doesn't do screw-ups on that scale."

"You told Deakins and me he was distracted throughout the case. By Cora and by Jennifer Cooper." Carver sent her tired, tortured eyes. "I wouldn't put it past the defense office to pull a stunt on you and blame Goren's…newfound happiness for Mrs. Whittaker's fall from grace."

"But…he didn't do anything wrong, did he?"

Carver just shrugged. "I don't have a time line. Worst-case scenario? Jennifer is on the defense's witness list. Then it's no longer an interviewee dating her interviewer. It's the witness of a murder investigationdating the investigator who worked the case."

"And you find all this out tomorrow?" Alex's heart sunk. "That soon?"

"Yes." He looked at his watch and sighed. "Technically in three hours."

"You can get the files at that hour?"

"I'll put it off in hopes to appear nonchalant. I'll wait until four in the morning."

Alex bit her lip. "How would the defense have found out about Bobby and Jenny?"

"Numerous ways. Simple word of mouth can be deadly in a game of politics." Carver picked up a newly poured flute of champagne. "Here's to living old and dying young."

Alex tipped her drink back as well, eyeing the happy couple conversing between songs in a new light. If Bobby had had any idea Jenny would have ended up on the witness stand, he wouldn't have touched her. At least Alex thought. She didn't consider how her Goren, the invincible, intelligent, irreverent Goren could possibly fall for anyone. Yet there he was, coercing her out into a break just barely an hour into the party. He was still a good dancer, and Jenny appeared to know how lucky she was.

Bronson popped into Alex's reverie holding a camcorder. "Any Christmas wishes, Detective?"

"Yeah, for you to get lost! What is this, some office party to you?" She pushed the camera away from her face. "Get lost, Bronson!"

Making a face, he hobbled away and made the mistake of chancing upon Bobby and Jenny. Before he could ask them for Christmas wishes, Bobby turned her, his face hidden in her hair, and his hands were spread over her back, soaking in the smoothness of the dress on her skin. Extracting his face, he took a deep, serene breath and allowed his eyes to shut. Bronson buttoned his lip and observed before Jenny caught him holding the camera on them.

"Yes?" She fluttered her eyelashes, drawing Bobby out of his stupor.

"Christmas wishes?" Bronson squeaked.

Jenny tilted her head. "Music for the world."

Bobby dipped into the camera lens, dangerously close, his one eye the only thing focused in the little window. "Joshua Bronson, I hope you die. That is my Christmas wish."

"Be careful! You'd feel terrible if something happened."

Bobby gave the mousy man a rough push and exhaled through his nose. "I swear he's been following us. First the skating rink…now this?"

Jenny sat back on the stool, sighing unhappily. "Just…ignore him tonight, please? It was going really well."

He picked up his scotch and Coke. "I'll try, but he has a way of worming into my infections."

* * *

Jenny fell asleep in the cab on the way to Bobby's apartment. She'd helped load up all the speakers and amplifiers, microphones, and even boxed up some of the finer appetizers for the homestead. He caught her eating a popcorn ball as if she hadn't eaten all day, and the next thing he knew, she'd fallen asleep over her guitar.

He got her inside before she woke up and insisted on walking and carrying her own instrument. Inside the apartment, she slumped into his bed, shoes half on, and didn't bother trying to move. He unzipped her dress, draping it over the nearest object with a slight yawn for himself. He was looking forward to another night of good sleep. Her shoes fell off.

As he slept, the usual dreams haunted him and teased him, never really settling in his brain to be remembered in the morning. There was an odd apprehension, a knot in his stomach, and then six o' clock on the day before Christmas Eve rolled around and the clock-radio blared to live with an early morning traffic report and news catch-up from the night before.

He lay there a moment, remembering the case he planned to bump down to homicide just after the holidays, trying to remember how to turn off the confounded clock-radio he'd set, and felt his hand stop dead in the air.

"The Whittaker trial is taking an interesting turn. A matter of public record, all evidence files were released to the prosecution and defense today, and the defense for Mrs. Whittaker is looking like an insinuation of a police screw-up.

"The prosecution, with an array of physical evidence, as we previously reported, has decided to stick to its guns. The defense, however, is accusing the leading investigator of beginning an inappropriate relationship with one of his witnesses…"

He sat, up, his heart banging in his ribs. The two minutes he stared at the radio, happily chattering about a new community center getting new tile floors after years of the black mold and endangering children's lives, unmoving. Jenny chilled a little and sat up, no longer cocooned in his arms.

"What's up?" She yawned, looking tired and curious. "Something happen? Another job?"

"Mrs. Whittaker…" He murmured. "She was…she was granted a trial by jury, and if they've decided to put you on the witness list, that means—"

Jenny's eyes widened dramatically. "That means the cop who worked the Whittaker case is sleeping with the girl who hates Mrs. Whittaker?"

Bobby reached up, tugging his hair. "Fuck!"

Jenny curled up, looking tired and beaten. She no longer looked her age; something had settled on her face, aging it. Her childish glow, which she fought so hard to keep alive in the name of fun, which was hard to understand but easy to love, faded. She looked older and wiser, but miserable. Bobby understood why she hated writing for an audience—they couldn't give her the childish energy from which she fed.

Jenny stood up, her jaw set tightly. "What the hell am I going to testify?" She bent and picked up one of his shirts, buttoning it over her bra and panties, flopping to the floor and picking under his bed. She popped back up with a ripped pair of jeans which belonged to her. Slipping these on, she rolled her evening dress into an impossibly small ball and stuffed it into her handbag. Her shoes, which were simple pumps, were slipped on because they were all she had.

"That you hated Mrs. Whittaker." Bobby replied miserably. "Where are you going?"

"Home!" She replied in a clipped tone. "I'm going do some fucking damage control—I suggest you do the same!"

"Damage control?" He replied, sinking into a slouch.

She pulled on her coat and tossed her hair over the collar. "Yeah. The story breaks and I'm at his house—wonderful coincidence. I'm going home and you and I probably shouldn't talk—"

"We didn't do anything _wrong,_ they're just going to spin it like that. Jenny, please—"

"No!" She shook his hand off, which had slid up her arm to her elbow, trying to convince her it was just a smokescreen. "But I don't like my laundry, clean or filthy, displayed to the world because some jealous bitch has decided I've got to pay the price for her crazy children!"

Bobby's eyes widened in surprise.

"And I don't want to damage you or me, so I'm just leaving, okay?" She picked up her guitar and he watched a tear slap his floor, soaking into the carpet. She wiped the trail it left on her cheek, her back to him, and jetted out the door without looking back or waiting for his answer.


	11. Dependent

_Author's Note:_ So. Yeah. There's a cliffhanger kinda. I apologize now.

Gobbity hoblins!

* * *

Deakins looked up when two clenched fists slammed to his desktop. Just a little hung over, he looked up, fully expecting it to be Bobby Goren.

"Did Carver call you?"

"No, I heard it on the radio." Goren replied, his teeth clenched behind his lips. "And Jenny heard too."

"Good. She can prepare her story."

"We tell the truth—neither of us broke the law."

"Your ethics will be on the line, Detective." Deakins folded his hands atop his desk pleasantly. "Your judgment. Alex is also on that list, and she has to testify about what she told me about your distractions as you got more involved in the case. It doesn't look good."

Goren leaned in close to his boss, using every ounce of his size to intimidate. "Do you doubt my conclusions? Do you really think I was so incapacitated by that woman I didn't pull in the right perp?"

"This is where I can't answer truthfully, Bobby." He blinked, unfazed. "I'd like to believe you love that girl because she makes you happy. Being in love, by your own admission, is irrationality. It's stupidity and temporary insanity. You couldn't have been the detective you think you were if you were falling in love with her."

Baring his teeth, Goren straightened up and turned to walk away, disgusted.

Deakins inhaled sharply. "Did she leave you?"

"I don't know." Goren replied and walked toward his desk. There was an odd silence in the squad room. The people with whom he'd been sharing cocktails and trading stories the night before were silent. He felt alienated all anew and was relieved to see Eames at her desk, reviewing the case he had wanted to bump down to homicide.

"Alex—" He was surprised at the tone in his voice.

Her head snapped to him, her eyebrows furrowed in worry. "Is everything okay?"

He had sounded, even in his own head, as if he were about to sit down and cry. Inhaling to make it look as if he were despairing over his anger, he reached up and pulled his hair, baring his teeth again.

"They're making me out to be the idiot!"

She was sympathetic. "You and Jenny. Carver told me last night he was starting to worry they'd put her on the stand just to make you unethical. They must be pretty confident to let him see those files before Christmas…"

"My fucking ethics shouldn't be in question! I had _evidence!_ Who the fuck cares who I'm with?" He had turned his whole life into gaining control on something and making it right. The few things which he had no control over were now ruling him. His mother, his own impending fall from grace, and Jennifer Cooper. He didn't like how she'd wormed into that place in his heart, but she was there, and he would do anything to keep her short of murder.

"It's not like there aren't other girls out there. If she's not strong enough to go through a trial knowing she hasn't done a damn thing wrong, she's not your girl."

He tapped his temple. "Her brain doesn't work like ours, Eames. A trial isn't just a Sunday affair. She heard she was going on trial and got scared before I even told her why…"

"So? She's not good under pressure. She'll do fine and the relief of being done with it all—"

Carver entered the squad room holding a box of files. "Detectives! You're both on the defense list under subpoena if you refuse." He tilted his head. "Please, work this out with me?"

"We can't talk to you if we're on the defense's list, can we?"

Carver sent her a brilliant smile. "Then let me just say good fucking luck. Today Major Case Squad is going down in a blaze of fucking glory…"

* * *

"Goren, wake up!" Logan jumped on the back part of Goren's chair, spinning it away from his desk in a blaze of glory. "Barek and I want to rematch you at a game of pool!"

Bleary and only half-awake, Goren leaned back in his chair, peering around the poorly lit eleventh floor of the One Police Plaza. "Whattimeisit?"

"Too late for you to be working!" Logan replied in a game-show announcer's voice. "Let's live it up! I'll bet the Back Door is brimming with—"

"Jenny!" Goren jumped up, barely noticing his absence had caused Mike Logan to topple off the chair he'd been standing on. Barek and Eames, rushing in to see what the loud noise had been, saw Goren gathering his papers and rubbing the sleep off his face.

"What's up?" Eames asked, her worried look transforming into a scowl. "Robert Goren!"

Giving her a slightly puzzled look, he shrugged. "We're playing pool with Logan, aren't we?"

"Yes!" Logan pumped his fist in the air. "See, he's not a lost cause, Alex!"

She put her hands on her hips, prepared to shoot him down with some snappy comment.

Quietly, almost as if she were alerting a room full of children their mother had died, Carolyn Barek raised her right hand and captured their attention. "The Back Door is closed tonight."

"Closed? It's just before Christmas—it's usually packed!" Logan looked like he might throw a fit.

Barek squirmed uncomfortably. "I dunno. The owner died and they've been transferring deeds all day. I think the new owner is revamping the interior to make it a music based club rather than a bar with a bunch of drunk sports nuts."

Walking ahead of the group, who was now following him to the elevators, Goren opened his phone and pushed one of his rocket-dial numbers. Jenny's home number popped up and the phone began ringing. Pressing his ear to the tiny bit of technological brilliance, he plugged his other ear, jabbing the elevator button with his left foot.

"Hello?"

Goren sighed internally. "Sorry it's so late, Brock. Is Jenny in?"

There was a long sigh on the other end. "She's at the bar, man. Didn't you hear Cleary died in the kitchen fire at his other place? He left her the Back Door."

"He left her the bar?"

"Yeah! She's been in all day getting quotes for new windows and carpeting and tiling and acoustics. She's turning it into a music club." There was a cluck. "I heard she's going on trial. Well, I read. She's got a letter here from some lawyer."

"Who?" Goren nearly trembled with anticipation.

"A firm…Underwood and Jensen."

"Fuck!"

"Whoa, man, what's it mean?"

"It means we're totally screwed and it's my fault. Whenever she gets in, please have her call me, Brock. I mean it. She needs to talk to me. She doesn't want to because…because of some—please?"

"Are you begging?" There was a tired sound. "Man, don't pull me into—"

"I'm not begging because I'm—this has…" He took a deep breath. "She's upset with me and with herself and I just want to assure her that we'll be fine if she tells the truth. There's no reason to ignore me."

There was a slight pause on the other end. "Okay."

"Thank you." Goren snapped his phone shut as the elevator doors opened.

* * *

"It's his turn, Bobby. Take a deep breath and go home. Get ready for court—visit your mother."

"I went yesterday and I don't have anything to prepare." Goren bent over the desk, knowing his intimidation tactics were more likely to get him in trouble than get him his way. "You took my case and gave it to Bronson?"

"Yes."

"_Bronson?_"

"Barek and Logan were busy. He's been a rookie doing paperwork for months; you knew that. He came from the LAPD on special request and I haven't had him do anything outside this floor since the first week he was here." Deakins blinked slowly. "You have court tomorrow and you've done nothing but pester the other detectives and CSU's with your irritability."

"My irritability wouldn't be an issue if I could have my case and my life back!" He half-roared.

"Like it's my fault you're dating the defense's star witness?" Deakins replied in his infuriatingly soft tones.

"She wouldn't be a witness if everyone hadn't seen her on fucking display at the Goddamn Christmas party!" He released what was left of his breath, knowing if that didn't get him suspended, nothing probably would.

Deakins picked up his mug of coffee, took a drink, and motioned for Alex to close the door, which she did, her face oddly neutral. Goren dropped into a chair, feeling numb.

"Where is she?" Deakins asked, his voice oddly calm still.

"She hasn't left the bar in three days." Eames replied in a stiff voice when Goren didn't answer.

Deakins nodded, grunting in response. "She hasn't called him?"

"No, she's called him twice. Left messages only."

"And said?"

"She's really busy and she'll see him in court." Eames looked at Bobby's hunched form. "Asked him to drop off something she left at his apartment."

Goren started to leap up to leave and Deakins' calm demeanor faded fast. "Sit your ass down, Detective."

"I don't need this—"

"You don't need us protecting your big ass?" Deakins snapped. "We're trying to rescue your reputation, Bobby! I don't what poetic license she's given you, but badmouthing me and storming out on your partner isn't worth the reward you think it is. She's making trouble being scared of it. You need to be calm or she won't know to be."

"Captain, would it be totally illegal to talk to her?"

"Most definitely. Which is why I don't know about it." He went back to his coffee and newspaper. When neither of them moved, he looked over the tops of his reading glasses. "Well? Go on!"

Outside, on their way to the Back Door, Eames released a heavy breath. "Boy, you have no idea how close to suspension you were!"

"I know! I said the 'F' word to Deakins! Imagine—he's probably never heard that word in his life…" Goren replied sarcastically.

She stomped on his foot, hardly drawing a response out of him. "Hey, I'm sick of the cynical bastard you're becoming! Don't let a girl do this to you!"

"We're going to trial, Eames!"

"That isn't your fault!"

"Of course not, I'm just—"

"_No!_" She clamped her hands over her ears. "The less I know, the better!"

Infuriated past almost all recognition, he swerved to the front door of Jenny's newly acquired bar and yanked the door. It opened quickly, swinging wide in his overuse of power, and shot a shaft of light into the dark interior where the bar was being restocked and organized by Jenny and Andy, who was giving Goren a relieved but serious look.

"Jenny!" Bobby barked, and she drew her head out of a cooling cabinet full of Labbatt and Sam Adams. Her hair, in a loose bun, was spilling around her face. She blew a strand from her eyes, and seemed to pale.

"Hey!" She hefted herself over the bar and uneasily walked over to him, her arms crossed carefully. "I'm sorry, Bobby, I just—"

He grabbed her belt loop, the first thing she probably couldn't pry his mitts from, and jerked her close, throwing an arm around her shoulders. The comfort even the forced embrace brought was agonizing. Bobby closed his eyes, relieved she hadn't kneed him the crotch yet, and gingerly turned to smell her hair.

A kiss pressed into his neck and he bent, forcing the kiss to his face. Alex had turned her body backward unhappily, knowing she was going to end up saying she had her suspicions he'd slept with her, but she couldn't really know, even if he did stupid things like kiss her like that in the middle of the trial…

"I'm sorry." Jenny repeated, thinning her lips. "The bar is so much more work than I thought, and I helped prepare the wake for Bruce, and I just…you probably shouldn't be here, should you?"

"No, I shouldn't be here." Bobby admitted, his sleepless nights now catching up with him. "But I wanted to let you know if you just tell them what they want to know and tell the truth, we'll be fine. We're not conspiring; we're just going to tell the truth."

"And the Whittaker bitch?"

"She's guilty with forensics—she's going down even if they decide I'm a prat." He peered at Alex's turned back. "I better get going. She's trying to remain as innocent as possible.

"Play it up, luv." Jenny motioned his face. "Shave and scrub behind your ears. The jury will love you!"

* * *

"Defense calls Detective Alexandra Eames." A short man with a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee rearranged some files on his desk, spreading them into organized chaos again. While the woman he'd summoned was led up the aisle to the witness stand and sworn in, he took a casual look around the courtroom where he saw quite of a few of New York's finest as well as a few of the bar-crawling types he'd expect.

"Could you state your name, for the record please?"

Alex went through the motions thoughtlessly until everything was spelled, recorded, and ready to go, her eyes alert but blank and unseeing.

"Now that we know your name, could we discuss your title?" The attorney, Jensen, smiled, revealing a perfect set of pearly whites.

Alex, slightly miffed with his unnaturally bright teeth, sent him a wince instead of a smile. "Sure, we can discuss that. I'm a senior detective with the Major Case Squad in New York."

"As a senior detective, you have a partner with which you work to solve crimes, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"His name, Detective Eames?"

"Senior Detective Robert Goren of the Major Case Squad." She knew this was going to be an episode of "_Dirty Laundry: Cops Edition_" if she didn't try to stop them from spinning in that way in the first leg. Why she was the first victim interviewed she didn't quite understand yet, and because Bobby was a witness too, she assumed she wouldn't be getting an answer until after the trial.

"Ah, the famous Detective Goren who was once accused of driving a man to suicide with his questionable police tactics, am I correct?"

"One in the same." Alex crossed one leg over the other, trying to appear more patient than she felt.

Jensen, making a face as if he couldn't quite tell what question he wanted to ask next, turned and rested his hands on the railing around Alex's witness stand. "Did you interview a woman named Jennifer Cooper while investigating the death of a Mister Aaron Whittaker?"

"She was interviewed during the course of our investigation, yes."

"But did _you_ interview her, Detective?"

She smiled just a little and tilted her head. "No, I didn't. Detective Goren did that himself."

"Was that normal?"

"If he feels he'll get more done by himself, I let him have his playtime and organize other things."

"What did he get done, Detective?"

"He discovered a possible motive for Mrs. Whittaker to have killed her husband. Miss Cooper also indicated Mrs. Whittaker and Mr. Whittaker weren't in the best marital status, which later proved to be true."

"And this is all on record, I take it, being, recorded in the police station?"

Alex shook her head, smiling again. "No, we typically don't record interviews unless the person is potentially a subject."

"But she was interviewed at the police station?"

"No, she was interviewed in the bar where she was working."

"Alone, with Detective Goren?"

"Yes."

The jury was now giving Alex odd looks for her smiles and answers, as if wondering what she could possibly say to redeem herself.

"How far away were you?"

"I was waiting for them to conclude on the other side of the smoking/non-smoking barrier."

"Okay, and did you grow tired of waiting?"

"Yes, so I went over there to get my partner and leave." She felt the apprehension showing on her face and tried to turn it into a nervous smile and get part of the jury back.

"Had you met her before?"

"At the same bar, which is why we knew where to find her when her name surfaced on an appointment list for Aaron Whittaker. She was the last person scheduled to see Mr. Whittaker. He never showed up for his appointment."

"Did your partner show any particular interest in her then?"

"When we first met her?"

"Yes, Detective Eames."

Alex shrugged. "He was engrossed in the new case when we first saw her. After a while, when I asked him what he thought of the music she was playing, he seemed to like it and spoke to her at the bar when he went up for drinks."

"Did he get her number?" Jensen leaned on her witness stand again, flashing her those obnoxious teeth again.

Alex squinted as if blocking light out. "No,"

"Never?"

"Not that night."

Jensen raised his eyebrows. "So, the next time you two spoke with her she was a person of interest with the case you and Detective Goren were working?"

"Yes," Alex tilted her head, trying to look neutral.

"Bringing you back to the day your partner interviewed her in the Back Door where she was playing a set…what did you find when you went to summon your partner and leave?"

"He and Miss Cooper had finished their interview…"

"May I remind you—"

Alex inhaled sharply. "I saw my partner take Miss Cooper's arm and pull her toward him. She turned around and they kissed. After a moment she walked away and I approached the table."

"Did you reprimand him?"

"Yes. I told him she might still be needed for the investigation. He said he wouldn't make anything of it until he was certain she was unimportant to the investigation and I believed him."

"Are these his notes from her interview, Detective?" Jensen held up a yellow legal pad in a plastic bag marked as evidence. She observed the handwriting and noticed Jenny's phone number scrawled in the margin. Her heart sank. "Yes."

"I would like to present…"

The rest droned on and on. Alex felt like the attorney, who was having a grand old time smearing Bobby's character and making his client out to be a harmless woman with two insane children, was wiping her on the floor. He put it up like no person could cope with the insanity and the harm it could cause. It made Alex sick.

"No further questions at this time, Your Honor." Jensen sat down, engrossed in his notes.

ADA Carver stood up, buttoning his suit jacket and taking a few steps toward the witness stand, noticing Alex's glare directed at him, demanding he fix the mess Jensen had made.

"Miss Cooper's information regarding Mrs. Whittaker—did it help the investigation?"

"Bobby already suspected she had something to do with it. When he heard an inside source claim there was something there, we looked deeper and ended up finding probable cause for a search warrant. Originally, however, it was our suspicion."

"Had the interview concluded when your partner…indulged in the aforementioned indiscretion?"

"Yes."

"Has he ever done this before?"

"No. He is a harmless flirt when he realizes what he's doing, and most of the time he's just trying to weasel information out of some poor woman." Alex felt herself relaxing. "He's not the easiest guy to get along with—not laid back enough to be that way."

"Would his interest in Miss Cooper be changed at all by her views on the Whittaker case?"

"He was upset to discover she'd be interviewed for the case. He wanted to keep her out of it to avoid all if any connection to the case. It is New York, however, and every crime has two people to interview if not more, and it was just dumb luck we got the case with her as an attached interview." Alex blinked.

"Would Detective Goren's insights on the case be affected by Miss Cooper?"

"His insights, no. Typical of any man, however, his…attention to little things started to lift a little. I was doing my fair share of the work, however, and we got everything done as we always do."

"The monkey was off your back for a change?"

"I became a rabid monkey myself, for a change." She amended, smiling a little.

Carver smiled weakly and turned, picking at papers on his desk. "Did you or your partner have any reason to believe Miss Cooper would be a witness in any of the trials the arrests at the Whittaker house?"

"No."

"Thanks, no further questions."

Jensen jumped up when the judge turned to ask him if he wanted to re-direct examine her. "How did your partner come into possession of a two-year-old Cora Whittaker?"

"He has a soft spot for kids with single parents and bad parents. When we arrested her entire family, he volunteered to keep her until a foster home or adoptive family could be reached."

"Did Miss Cooper know the child?"

"I…I'm not sure."

"No further questions."

Carver didn't bother to cover that one—Alex didn't know if Jenny had known Cora or not, so the defense's point was not made.

"You may stand down, Detective."

Alex made her way to the courtroom doors, her knees shaking. It had been hell, but she'd told the truth. She'd see to it if it set her partner free.

* * *

Goren sat under police surveillance until he was called for trial, his hands folded in his lap. Jenny, silent, sat some thirty feet of bench away, trying not to catch his eye. He started twiddling his thumbs, hearing booming voices and soft responses in the other room. Alex sounded as if she were being wiped on the floor. He closed his eyes.

The doors burst open and Alex walked out, her shoulders thrown back too far, her chin up just a smidgen too high. It was, Goren realized, her look of defeat.

Giving him her sorriest look, Eames just shrugged and was escorted away quickly before the witnesses could communicate.

"Court is adjourned for the day." Carver informed the police men waiting on Jenny and Goren just loudly enough for both to hear. "If we could have them back at nine tomorrow…"

The police officers, sending weary looks at both Goren and Jenny, walked away back to regular duty. Giving Goren a shaken look, Jenny rearranged her hair and pulled on her jacket, looking at her watch and rushing off, presumably to her new bar to continue her renovations.

After a moment staring out the doors at the jurors and the attorneys moving toward lunch breaks and ends of long days, he felt a nudge on his shoulder and Captain Deakins stood, his hands in his pockets, a rueful smile on his face.

"How'd it go?"

"They don't let us in to see."

"I know that. But you saw Alex."

Goren simply shrugged. "She looked like she might have said something bad, but it wasn't a lie; I know that." He looked out the door. "I can't…there's hardly a human being I can talk to without being accused of corroborating."

"We all make mistakes." Deakins kept his small, tight smile. "We all have cloudy judgment some days. You included."

"I agree, but the day I met Jenny didn't put the blinders on me. I didn't arrest Mrs. Whittaker because I wanted her favor or her approval. I did it because—"

"If not for Jenny, then maybe for Cora?"

"I did it because she refused to admit her world was crumbling around her and she _killed_ her husband because he tried to make something of the ruin he came home to every day."

"Get some sleep, Bobby. Prepare yourself. And don't get mad at Jensen—he'll try to rile you up. Of course, you knew that." Deakins indicated Goren's clenched fists. "Just like you know now he's saving you for last so he has the most information he could possibly have."

For what felt like the longest three seconds of Goren's life, he stared at his shoes, and then, without a thought, replied in a thoughtful tone, "Shit."

* * *

It was well past dark, but the brightly lit street lamps surrounding the park kept watchful parents relaxed as young children ran rampant through the see-saws and swing-sets. They hurled snowballs, one and all, and laughed merrily, as they had every right to do. The usual Christmas exchange, for Bobby, had consisted of a piece of jewelry for his mother, who was, as always, touched by his taste in fine jewelry, and a new book on psychology. He had the book on his bedside table now, and had made a fair dent in it. She seemed to realize how fascinating he found the human mind, but she had wrapped the book in five or so paper bags as if certain someone was going to discover she was training a super-genius and they might harm him. He promised not to take it out of the bags until he got home, where he slipped them, one by one, from the bags, holding a scotch in one hand and his ringing cell phone in the other.

Eames had left two Christmas greetings over the course of the day. The impersonal partner feeling had dissipated, and though she knew she had to be breaking some codes trying to contact him, she left him a detailed Christmas greeting, and a detailed apology for possibly losing him his perp and engaging him in warfare with the department for his indiscretions.

A set of monkey bars, lightly frosted in ice and snow, cracked with the freezing wind. Bobby pulled his hat lower over his ears and kicked a snow-covered, half-inflated soccer ball. It was so cold the ball had frozen into a flattened shape on one side, and after a few pitiful rolls, it stopped, the snow around it settling again. Letting out a puff of steamed breath, Bobby observed his surroundings.

_Three blocks west—or two south. Haven't said anything to Lewis in a while…busy with his shop. Just three blocks west and two south. Either order, end up the same place. Jenny…_

It wasn't far from the Back Door, which had dormant windows and no lit neon sign to welcome him, that he found himself muttering to himself, most displeased. After passing the bakery and two record shops he recognized, he realized he was heading into the lion's den. Jenny's apartment building held a wreath, mostly crooked, on its front door, wishing happy holidays to all those who passed by.

Straightening the decoration, Bobby reached to the buzzers and found one labeled Andy-Jenny-Brock" in tiny, thin handwriting.

There was a thunder upstairs and the front door jerked open, revealing Jenny holding her nightshirt closed, a toothbrush sticking out of her mouth. She saw him and leaned out into the cold night, spitting over the side of the stoop and dragging her left hand across her mouth, staring at him as if she were seeing double.

"Bobby?"

"I…couldn't?"

"Couldn't?" She repeated, standing in the doorway, her arms gathered around her elbows, her toothbrush forgotten in her hand.

"Keep?"

Jenny let out a soft breath of air as if she understood and backed up, reached and jerked him inside. Once inside, she leaned up and kissed him shortly on the mouth. "Away? You couldn't keep away, Bobby?"

"I'm sorry you're in trouble now. I never meant for it to happen." He felt a weariness in his voice and leaned, resting his forehead on hers. "We're not supposed to talk now, but I couldn't—never couldn't…Jenny—"

"Do you think you should go?" She had nothing written on her face, leaving it totally up to him, her hands tight on his, betraying just a slight attachment to finally having him back physically after neglecting his presence for more than a few seconds for so long.

"I…" He felt his throat start to clog, and he cleared it, swallowing and clearing again, looking at her smaller hands tucked neatly inside his, holding his thumb and forefinger tightly. "I need…you."

Pulling Bobby up, Jenny moved toward the open door one floor from the landing and pushed him inside. Once inside, she discarded her toothbrush to the grungy floor of the apartment, dragging him toward the nearer of two couches—an enormous green plaid number with three blankets piled on it. He took in a cursory glance around the room and counted eight guitars and a banjo without any strings. Surprised, he nearly toppled when Jenny pushed him into the plaid couch and splayed her legs across his lap, pushing an alleviated kiss into his lips, sifting her fingers through his hair as if it had been years and not days.

"How many guitars are—?"

Allowing her nightshirt to fall open and for Bobby's hands to disappear inside, Jenny shrugged. "Counting just mine? Four."

No longer interested in that topic, he felt his mouth shut and his eyes refocus on the task at hand. She was a willing participant, and just as relieved if not more. His right arm, looped around her waist at first, abandoned her and slid up her side to pull her closer so he could help her yank her nightshirt off. Something in the hallway made a sound, and Jenny jumped up, pulling him through her empty apartment to one of the rooms in the tiny two bedroom flat.

Inside her bedroom he saw another two guitars and a flute with a dent spread around the room. After she moved one of her guitars off her bed, she stood in front of him, undoing his belt a moment, her eyes closed as if following the voices in her head. When they opened, she shot him a sardonic grin.

"Okay?"

He pushed her into the bed and undressed himself, suddenly impatient. He didn't search for justification or for reason behind his sudden surge of power or need for power. He just took it, the heady, gross over-compensation for the situation, and flattened her to her bed, biting back sounds of anything and everything.

* * *

An internal alarm clock went off in Bobby's head come 3:57 in the morning. He realized he couldn't be seen, or run the risk of being seen, leaving the apartment building at "some time" the next morning. It was fine if he'd gone in—they couldn't prove he had talked to Jenny. He was confident he knew someone else in the near area. He could plead confusion. But leaving the next morning? Tired, satisfied? Utterly in love? He groaned, pulling a pillow over his head and upsetting Jenny from her peaceful slumber.

"Hey, bed-hog." She yanked her pillow back. "You've already monopolized the blankets."

There was a sudden knock on the door, to which neither Jenny nor Bobby reacted. Without a reaction, the door simply swung inward, revealing Brock in his bakery-best outfit.

"Hey! I need you early today. You're in court at nine, right?"

Jenny grunted.

"Get up, then. I need something done today. Is that—?"

Bobby sat up a little, looking at the darkness outside and wanting to curl up for a few precious hours of sleep. "Good morning."

"Oh, you're in such trouble if anyone finds out."

"Anyone finds out what?" A cheery voice asked and a blonde head with a tan face and heavily lined lips peered into the room. The jaw fell open and a wad of gum started to fall from her mouth.

"Jennifer!"

Jenny sat up, clutching a single sheet around her chest and waist, groping at the floor for what looked like a bra and shirt tangled together. "Yeah, yeah…let off. He's going soon…"

"This is the guy?" The woman stood up straight, suddenly, cocking her eyebrow and smiling a little. "Not bad, chickie."

Sitting in the bed, Jenny wrestled on a pair of panties and stood up, stalking around for her bakery whites as well, looking tired and tangled with the occasional red splotch on her neck showing up through all her hair.

"So, you're the cop." The woman walked in and extended her hand. "Trina Jennings."

"Robert Goren," he croaked, too tired to notice he was half-asleep in Jenny's bed with her entire circle of friends popping in to see him there.

"He goes by Bobby." A tired voice in the living room called in a slightly irritated fashion.

Jenny stood up as if her hackles had just done the same and leaned into the living room. "It's not like you didn't have someplace to be last night, is it, Andy?"

"No place better than home." He snapped back, walking by the open door in his boxers. "You put up one hell of a racket—"

"Damn right I did!" She retorted, her face not holding an ounce of a blush. Pushing all her friends out the door, she shut it, sat on the corner of the bed, and fell silent.

Bobby reached over the side of the bed and yanked up his boxers, sliding over to her, waking up a little more. He rested his chin on her shoulder, waiting with expressionless eyes until she looked over at him. When she did, he offered a weak smile and kissed her cheek.

"Rats, I tell you."

"I see that." He reached around her shoulders and ran his fingers up and down her upper arm, stopping at her bra strap and sliding down her to elbow. "But you'll be all right, won't you?"

"I end up on my feet eventually." She sighed.

"I don't doubt it." He felt his fingers close around her arm abruptly. "I meant what I said, Jenny."

"Last night?"

"Yeah."

"Good." She seemed to relax a little, her worry draining, and leaned back and kissed him. "Me too."


	12. Borderline Personality Disorder

_Author's Note:_ Whoa, man! School ended, I got in a car accident, saw "The Omen," bought "Men in Black," saw "Capote" and "Secretary" and then celebrated my birthday. I say you cannot blame me for falling asleep on my keyboard right n--dmnm,nzxdc,a.m

* * *

Captain Deakins held a cup of coffee out to Goren the moment he spotted him sitting along the witness bench in the public courtyard. It was just ten minutes shy of nine o' clock, and the man was slouched over, his head in his hands, smiling at his shoes.

"Carver says they're calling Jenny first thing." He watched as Goren sat up and accepted the coffee, wiping the smile from his face as quickly as he could manage.

"I figured. They're stacking up the ammunition, just like you said."

"So?"

"So I'm okay." He couldn't help but crack a grin. "I think I'm going to be okay, at any rate."

"Glad to hear it." Deakins patted the shoulder Goren turned to him when he rotated in his seat to check the doors. A police officer, another baby-sitter, most likely, had run up to open the door for the judge, who was just arriving. Just behind the judge, Jenny walked, no longer dressed in her Sunday best, trying to look innocent and of sound mind. She wore her ripped jeans, was still undoing her bakery whites, and had flour on her cheek. She caught his eye and twirled as if giving him the full view of her enigma.

The smile started to return and he tried to turn it into a repercussion, but she was grinning and carefree already. She sat down carefully on the bench across from him and he turned his smile back to his shoes, sipping his coffee.

"I won't ask." Deakins offered.

Goren just looked up at him with a deadpan serious face. "Ask about what?"

"Court is in session!" The doors started to swing shut. The lawyers both recapped for the jury some important parts of the case, and when the judge had had enough, he ordered the next witness to be brought in. The bailiff walked to the back of the courtroom and opened the door.

"Defense calls Miss Jennifer Jocasta Cooper."

Jenny picked herself off the bench and playfully arranged all her messy clothes, tossing a fat braid over her shoulder with a look of determination. As she paced up to the bailiff and he turned his back on her to lead her to the witness stand, she turned around, locking eyes with Goren. Deakins put a hand on Goren's shoulder to encourage him not to make a face, or otherwise communicate.

Jenny mouthed, "I love you."

Bobby swallowed and grinned, dropping his head again. Jenny simply smiled and whisked herself away into the courtroom. The door swung shut and Deakins realized he'd forgotten to run inside to watch the questioning, leaving their rookie Bronson to tell him how badly Jenny had been demolished when it was all over.

"What was that?" Deakins asked quietly.

"That's why I don't care anymore." He stood up and arranged his tie. "If that jury acquits...which they can't, by the way--if they acquit Lana Whittaker, they have to insist Alex and I be punished. If that happens, we get punished, we move on, we stay partners, I keep Jenny, and I have three other charges I could level against Lana Whittaker which Jenny didn't affect at all."

"All of that from some lip-reading across the courtroom?"

"Cap--"

"Do you reciprocate?"

Goren looked up at Deakins, surprise written on his face. "Well...yes."

"So now your theory of love creating chaos? What about that?"

"It does create chaos. I was..." He fumed silently, trying to pick his words. "I walked around Central Park for nearly an hour last night. I had one thought on my brain, and it wasn't court. It--it affects you d-differently. You and me. It is irrationality, I admit. But my job and Jenny do not touch. They're on separate sides of my head." He closed his eyes, tracing his fingers over his skull. "The parts that light up on EEG machines? They're on different continents in my head. When they both light up, that's when I get in trouble, and that's where Nicole Wallace always got me. Mixing my emotions with my work."

"So, what? You and Jenny are going to sit on the stand and sing about love and happiness, and go around and say you wouldn't even use her statement for probable cause against the very woman Jenny knew to be the perp?"

"Trying to woo a woman is different--who wants to buy the cow when they're getting free milk? Remember that saying? When a man tries to woo a woman, he behaves differently than when he knows she's been wooed." He glanced up at the captain wearily. "I love her, and I don't have to irrational anymore, because there's nothing to be irrational about."

"You know, eventually this love thing turns into marriage, babies, and growing old together. Or are you living in the moment?" He raised his eyebrows. "Because that doesn't seem like Bobby Goren's style."

"I'm only ever reacting to her reactions to me." He looked at his watch. "Do we have a mole inside?"

"Bronson."

"Did he finish my case?"

Deakins eyes sparkled. "Yes. Using all your notes. You should have seen him, Bobby. His eyes were as big as saucers when Alex popped into explain what your notes meant. You reached all the conclusions in your ramblings he'd been crawling all over the city for."

"Little bastard." Goren sighed, crossing one leg over the other and finding a newspaper. "I hope they'll wake me up if they need me." He folded the paper over his face and dipped his head. Deakins marveled in the relaxed way Goren interacted now. His endless energy, only fueled by coffee and his pacing, hurtling mind, had stilled. Something had placated him, and all Deakins could hope was it hadn't rested his mind forever, because the restless energy that ruined Goren made for a good police task force. Jenny better not be out to change anything about him, anyway.

Inside the courtroom, Jenny arranged herself more daintily in the uncomfortable witness stand, trying not to play with her braid. She saw this as another performance, and if she could speak the truth and not be forced to bluff her way home, she'd do it. Letting out an inaudible but shaky breath, she turned a glowing yet neutral face to the lawyer pacing before her.

He reached over and handed her a picture. "Could you identify who is in this photograph, please, Miss Cooper?"

"Jenny, please." She took the photograph and felt her heart start pounding. It was what the defense was probably looking for, and she decided to smile fondly instead of becoming outraged. Her quelled emotions settled and a fond smile spread over her face.

"That's me and Bobby."

"Bobby?"

"Goren. Detective Robert Goren, if I must be blunt." She blinked innocently.

"And how did you meet Detective Goren?" The lawyer paused. "This _infamous_ Detective Goren...ice skating."

Jenny smiled gently. "He came in with his partner after his shift was over and they had drinks while my band played a set or two. After my set I went to get drinks and he was at the bar figuring out what was in the different mixed drinks the bar offered."

"And you two chatted about?"

"What's in an Orgasm and why I didn't have a Red Hot Lover that night." She smiled devilishly. "After a brief explanation, he moseyed his way back to his partner and promised he'd come back to hear another set."

"And did he?"

"Eventually, sure."

The lawyer smiled. "The next time he came back, what was he doing?"

Jenny crossed her left leg over her right knee and put another fond smile on her face. "He just ducked into to tell me his partner had been harassing him about us talking at the bar. He wanted to know if he'd come off as...well, he wanted to know if it seemed like he was hitting on me. I said no, if anything, I had been flirting with him, and he left again."

The lawyer put on a fond smile to mirror Jenny's. "Do you know if he was on duty then?"

Jenny shrugged. "Not sure. His partner was with him again, but I didn't bother to ask."

"Okay...and when did you discover Aaron Whittaker's death?"

"The third time I saw him he came in because they'd found my name in an appointment book. I was supposed to be the last meeting before he died. I was scheduled for the evening he died."

"What did you tell the detectives?"

Jenny hesitated.

"I'm sorry, what did you tell Bobby when he asked you?"

She tugged her braid and made a face like she was trying to remember. "At first I didn't know why they were looking into Aaron. He's a pussycat, and I knew he couldn't have been into drugs or sharking or anything, so I just said his wife had called to say he couldn't make his appointment and probably wouldn't be able to again, and how I didn't think he'd do anything wrong. Bobby clarified for me, and when I was informed Aaron had died, I read better into what Lana had told me over the phone."

"Lana Whittaker, my client?"

Jenny turned neutral eyes on Lana Whittaker. "Yes, her. I also informed Bobby about the marital strife and the biological truth of her youngest daughter."

Carver smiled to himself. If Jensen had been meaning to avoid his client's indiscretions, he had just walked into it without an option to object.

"Why did you see it fit to inform Detective Goren about all this?"

"He was looking for leads, for enemies. I figured if anybody had done anything suspicious or had anything to gain from Aaron's death, it was his wife. I assume she stands to gain his money, his studio, and the right to sleep with whoever she wants."

Carver stayed silent again, trying not to shake with his silent laughter.

"Did you ask any special favors of Detective Goren?"

"No. I told him what he asked."

"Did you ask him anything?"

Jenny squirmed a little, and made a guilty face. "I asked him why he hadn't asked me out yet."

Jensen looked a little miffed, and observed the jury's calm stare on him. "His response, Miss Cooper?"

"He wasn't sure he'd have the time to make a proper date, and if he had the time, he'd probably have to cancel."

"Did you accept that response?"

"It was noble, but not what I was looking for."

"What then, if anything did happen?"

Jenny took a moment to marvel at Jensen's odd choice of grammar, and shifted her legs again. "I asked if he'd call me when he got a chance, and wrote my number on his note-pad. He said he'd call, and I kissed him."

"_You_ kissed _him?_"

"Yeah. I was going to be a dramatic flirt and walk away, but he grabbed my arm and pulled me back. His partner walked in and she almost blew a gasket, so I split before I got pulled into the middle. They're like a married couple like that." Jenny let out a light laugh. "I figured I'd already overstepped my bounds anyway."

"So, you left an on-duty police man with your phone number and a kiss after giving him a shady lead?"

"He asked _me_ what I _thought_ about anybody wanting to hurt Aaron. I told him what I _thought_ and it wouldn't have impressed me if he'd somehow found the evidence for a smartass lawyer to have gone to jail. I don't care who he pulls in as long as it's the right guy. I asked for no favors, and I still don't want any." Jenny released a hot breath. "He did with my thoughts what he needed to do, and he followed the evidence. It's what police officers do, and it's what he did."

"Did he discuss the case with you?"

"Only the pieces he could. I learned most of what had happened from the news. The only inside knowledge I really had about the state of affairs was the Whittaker girl had moved in with him temporarily."

"When was your first date, Miss Cooper?"

Jenny shifted, looking at the high ceilings. "Late November."

The lawyer pulled up a large calendar. "Around here, you say?" He circled the last five days of November with a red marker.

"Yeah, I guess."

"This was the day Lucy Whittaker, Paul Whittaker, and Lana Whittaker were all charged with varying murder accusations. Paul and Lucy were given to an institution for mental illnesses." Jensen circled a day in the middle of the pack of days Jenny had given Jensen as possible "first date nights."

"This is the day Cora Whittaker was put into an adoptive home straight from Goren's big heart." Jensen circled December second on the calendar, and indicated the calendar. "Anything you'd like to add, Miss Cooper?"

"No--"

"This was the day Lana Whittaker was transferred into Riker's and assumed guilty before proven guilty." He circled December fifteenth. "Ten days to Christmas."

Jenny was quiet.

"Are you and Detective Goren involved sexually?"

"Objection! Relevance, your honor!" Carver kept his fingers spread over his desk to hide any shaking of rage or fear, and maintained eye contact with the judge.

"Your honor, my point will be made if Miss Cooper answers my question."

"Go ahead, but this line of questioning will _not_ be tolerated much longer."

"Please, Miss Cooper." Jensen made eye contact with Jenny and leaned against the witness stand railing.

"Yes."

"And do you remember what day this sexual relationship began?"

Carver's mouth flapped in amazement.

Jenny started to tilt her head.

"You'd remember, wouldn't you? A special night like that?"

Now torn between being arrogant and forgetting her first night making love to Bobby, and giving up a non-existent sex-bribe, Jenny made a face, closing her eyes. "December fifteenth. It was ten days to Christmas, I remember."

Carver stood up. "Relevance, please, your honor!"

"Jenny Cooper teased Detective Goren to get what she wanted. She was going to be let down by a B Grade music producer with a crappy recording deal lined up and the one thing keeping her from getting her foot at least wedged into Hollywood's door was Lana Whittaker. Aaron turns up dead and revenge is just around the corner--for hurting Aaron, for hurting her, and for hurting Cora. Jenny teased him and then she traded sexual favors once Lana was in jail." Jensen released a huge breath and pointed furiously to Jenny. "She scoped him out to get what she wanted. She is a petty, manipulative criminal, and she has put my client on trial because of it."

"Counselor, if you'd address these questions to the witness instead of bellowing them to the jury, I would be much obliged." The judge had banged his gavel once or twice throughout Jensen's tirade. Turning and adjusting his tie, Jensen leaned against the witness stand.

"How old are you, Miss Cooper?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Your birthday?"

"November second."

"Do you know how old Detective Goren is?"

"In his...forties."

"Forty-four, to be exact." Jensen looked at the jury, who no longer looked bored with the useless witness who had done nothing wrong.

"Yes, that's right." Jenny squirmed.

"Did you offer him anything for Lana Whittaker's arrest?"

"Absolutely not."

"Does he...is he proud of you, Miss Cooper?"

"For the last time, please call me Jenny." She folded her arms across her chest. "I don't know about pride, sir, but he's a private man."

"So, he hides you? In shame, perhaps?"

"The second time we met, if you'll remember, he was only speaking with me because his partner had teased him. I can only imagine the ribbing he'd get if he flaunted anyone, friend or lover, in his coworkers' faces."

"What do you see in him, Jenny?"

She gave a look to Carver, who started to drag himself up to object.

Jenny shook her head, deciding it was better to waste time, and Carver seemed to agree, sliding back into his seat, letting her prove it was love and not evil.

"At first it was his intelligence. I have not been able to find someone smart enough to engage me mentally before. He was a pleasant surprise. A nice smile. Not arrogant, but not too shy. Just a picture of moderation." She smiled weakly. "He was tall, but I didn't mind."

"That it? He was intelligent, didn't have horrible teeth, and was a little taller than average?"

Jenny leaned forward, resting her hands on the railing around the witness stand. "Can you describe attraction to anyone other than your best friends? Let me attempt. He has puppy eyes. He was a bumbling cop in an actor's suit, and I could tell he was brilliant from the way he asked the bartender what was in an Orgasm. I liked the way he fumbled his way through small-talk. It meant it was unimportant to him. I liked the way he wasn't afraid to talk back to me, and how he wasn't afraid to let me have the last word. I liked that he came back, and when he finally hugged me, I really appreciated every inch he had on him. And his size thirteen shoe." She sat back and folded her legs again.

"No more questions." Jensen sat carefully in his seat.

Carver stood up, buttoning his suit jacket and pushing his tongue against his cheek inside his mouth. After a moment's pause, he smiled at Jenny. "Good morning, Jennifer."

"Mornin'." She nodded, relaxing a little.

"One thing the defense has so...poignantly left out of their theory you like to turn tricks for cops to imprison innocent women, no matter how guilty they are..." Carver allowed his run-on, fragmented sentence to soak into the jury. "Do you love Detective Goren?"

Jenny felt her careful facade crumble and she gave the courtroom a wide, helpless smile. "Yeah."

"What do you stand to gain from Mrs. Whittaker's guilty verdict?"

"I used to stand to gain nothing. Aaron's been put to rest and Cora has a home--I'm not getting paid for anything. Now, because of this," she gestured at the trial, "I can go on with my private business and I won't be sworn into a court of law to discuss my boyfriend's finer points."

Two women in the jury traded half-smiles, and made eye contact with Jenny, quickly wiping the expressions from their faces.

"Did Detective Goren ever do anything irrational or strange to get your attention? Anything that might insinuate he has a potential to be irrational?"

"Though far from irrational, it was out of character." Jenny sat up a little straighter. "I got him to walk along the rim of the fountain in Central Park with me just before it started to rain early December."

"So, other than that, he's never done anything stupid?"

"I don't know." Her eyes sparkled. "He's a gentleman and a half around me. I don't ever see him doing anything I'd regret."

"How about work? Did you notice any particular trouble he was having at work?"

"He seemed to be coping just fine with the load. He hates paperwork." She mined her brain for more information that might make Bobby innocent and herself more trustworthy. "At first they were concerned with the leads with Aaron's case, but after the kids were arrested, he calmed down and did the paperwork like he was supposed to."

"Jenny, excuse my frankness." Carver lowered his eyes to Jenny's upturned face. "Did you engage in a sexual relationship with Robert Goren in order to...reward him for imprisoning Mrs. Whittaker?"

"Nope." She felt herself holding her breath.

"Does it matter at all to you that he's a police officer?"

"He's doing what he loves."

"Did you single him out because of his profession?"

"No. He didn't seem like a cop. He told me later his purpose is more intellectual than patrol-work anyway. He's part of a prestigious branch of the NYPD, as far as I can tell." She shrugged, smiling helplessly again. "I'm proud of him just as much as I'm terrified I'll hear on the news some big oaf with a trench coat got shot."

Carver smiled while a few of the more daring observers giggled quietly.

"Thank you, Jenny."

Jensen leapt up, holding out a second photo. "I'm terribly sorry, Jenny, but I can't quite tell who it is in this photo..."

"That's Bobby and Alex."

"Where?"

"Christmas party." Jenny replied.

"And this photo?" He handed her another.

"Mr. Carver and Mr. Deakins."

"How do you know them?"

"I met Mr. Carver at the party, and Mr. Deakins is my bass player's cousin."

"So, you know Mr. Carver?"

"I saw him and heard his name. I never spoke to him or heard anything about him. I thought he was a cop, too, being at Bobby's party." Jenny shifted, unsure if this would be a crime, too.

"No further questions."

Carver waved off the next round, looking confident. He was sure he could get Goren to turn everything around once his time came.

"You may stand down, Miss Cooper."

Jenny stood, wringing her bakery whites in her hands, and made for the doors. The bailiff escorted her out, and once the door closed, Jensen presented all the photos into evidence along with a second tirade on the dates coinciding with each other and other circumstantial evidence.

Deakins elbowed Goren when Jenny reappeared a short twenty or so minutes later from inside the courtroom. She pulled her hair from the braid and stormed up to him. He pulled his face from behind the spread sports section and slowly awoke when she bent down and pushed a furious kiss onto his mouth.

Now more pleasantly awake, Goren squeezed her hand and touched her cheek with his free hand, the sports section fluttering to the ground at their feet.

"Hey, you two..." Deakins started to warn.

"Bye, Bobby. I have to see to the bar--"

"Yeah, absolutely." He gave her hand another squeeze and she twirled away, her bakery whites crumpled in her left hand.

Deakins looked at his watch. "Between the presentation of evidence and the stink Carver's going to make over Jenny's testimony, you might get sworn in, and that's it."

Bobby stood up and started bobbing around on the balls of his feet, a powerless sort of relaxation over his body. He swiveled and pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "Do you think I could get something to eat and be back by the time they call me in?"

"To be honest, I don't think you're going to be called today. Jensen's going to want to get his shit together and check his facts. I advise you to stay the hell away from the Back Door, Brock's Bakery, and Jenny's apartment."

Bobby's voice dipped into his husky, distracted, disappointed sort of tone. "Of course."

* * *

The Discovery Channel was showing a documentary--a rerun--of a pygmy sort of clan of people. Scientists debated not only their existence, but whether or not they lived in Java. Bobby's eyes were glazed half-open, taking in everything he saw without question. A trusted source, his television. For the most part. An untouched glass of scotch sat on the table beside him, and he considered taking the first sip from it for the hundredth time that evening. _It's only eleven thirty, for Christ's sake...get a grip._

He flipped to the History Channel and decided not to watch the controversial Satanic cult episode, opting rather to check out the National Geographic Channel. He was skipping around, disappointed with what he was finding and sat up at a knock on his door. He stood, leaving his television tuned into a stand-up comedian on a humor-oriented station.

Peering through the hole in the door warily, he saw nothing. Expecting more of the same, he looked at his gun, in its holster on his belt, just a few frantic seconds away in his bedroom. He considered most threats harmless unless armed, however, and simply opened the door.

Jenny popped up from bending down, a snow-covered boot melting in her hand. She shook snow from her shoulders and hair, giving him a soundless smile, reading his mind. She smacked her boots together, knocking all snow off them, and brushed past him into the apartment, undoing her coat as she went.

"You shouldn't stay. If they ask me tomorrow where I was tonight..."

"You were home, watching TV." She turned up the television to a high volume. "Even if he pulls in your neighbor, who didn't see me creep up the stairs and around the floor to avoid stepping on the squeaky middle board...she can only say she heard TV and not what I'm about to do to you."

"We really should stop meeting like this." Bobby could only grin as Jenny rested his cheek against his chest and linked her thumbs into his belt loops, sighing in a similar fashion.

"I know. It's so carnal. Not at all like I usually am. Then again, you do bring out the best and the worst in me." She tilted her face up, tricking him into kissing her. "I love you."

"Good."

She accepted his cocky response and her eyes turned into a stormy poet's eyes. "You'll say it again soon, dearie. In the deepest throes of passion, in the placid tranquil after, whenever again I hear it, be it in solemnity or in laughter." She took a bow to his silence and leaned up, kissing him. "This is why I can't stand writing."

"Maybe you can't hear the response because it's so internalized." He breathed. "Here." He took her hand and pushed it against his neck where his pulse was beating against his veins and through his skin. She felt the heightened response and her mouth opened, allowing her lips to form a small, pink O shape.

"I love you." Bobby smiled.

* * *

"It's three in bloody morning."

There was a girlish giggle. "No, no, no! You're not allowed to turn me own slang on me, stupid git!"

"The deadpan delivery doesn't help, does it?"

"Well, if your goal was to make me shat your bed, yes, it helps. If you want to be taken seriously." She sat up straight, grabbing a poster tube marked "EVIDENCE" and held it at her side like a scepter. "If you want to be taken seriously, act like you don't care if it's funny or not." She threw her chin up and leaned the scepter forward. "Now, fetch me some beer."

He scrutinized her, looking for something to say she was joking, and marveled in her perfect Act. Taking the evidence away and rolling it farther from his bed, he wrapped her in his sheets a little tighter, drawing her to his side and kissing her shoulder once.

"Too subtle?"

"Where did you say you buy your perfume?"

"It's actually a...well, an oil kind of thing. It comes in a pot, like this." She made a cup with her hands. "And it's thicker than Vaseline, but the same texture." She made a motion like swirling her finger in it. "The same stuff the Egyptian royals would put in the beehives on their heads to let it make them smelly all day. It's myrrh."

"Here," he rolled over her and pushed his face into her neck. "I smell both of us."

"Some nose you have there, Bobby." She ran her fingers up the back of his neck and rested them on the back of his head, tangled in his hair. "What happens after the trial?"

"Can't talk about it yet. After I testify tomorrow. Today."

Jenny wrapped her legs around his hips, clucking her tongue. "Because I was thinking of renaming the bar and making it more music-oriented. Help get some names out there for executives and music moguls. Maybe get a record and settle down with some money."

"You could do that." Bobby replied with tired conviction. "If you put your mind to it."

"I'm such a tyrant. I don't doubt it."

"You take on responsibility with a happy face. Do you enjoy having underlings?"

"I don't have an inferiority complex." She pushed her chin against his forehead and sighed. "But being in charge makes people listen. Before it was to humor me. Now they see I can settle down. Brock actually asked me if something was wrong because I didn't take a break from rehearsal last week to go out and sit on the swing-set in the park."

"Change frightens all of us a little."

"I'm terrified of changing the way change works. It's a transformation. That's why the death card in a tarot deck doesn't spell demise or a severed artery. It means the end of one era and begin of another."

"And why the hanged man doesn't spell death either, even though it precedes death in the deck." Bobby nodded. "It only means putting things on hold, feeling bound or trapped by plans held in limbo."

"Exactly." She whispered.

He opened his eyes and shifted, gazing down at the hip and torso partially exposed beneath him. "After the trial today, I'm visiting my mother."

"How is she?"

"As good as she gets, as always. No recent attacks or spells."

"That's good. What will you talk about?"

Bobby closed his eyes. "I'll tell her I'm in a little trouble, and she'll say, 'You know this is because you stopped seeing Father Albert. When you quit as his alter boy, he was devastated, you know. Look at me, Robert! Now, how is that nice girl you've been seeing?'"

Jenny's breath was held a short moment. "She knows about me?"

"Well...yes." He reached up and slid his fingers into her hair. "She asked if I was seeing anyone, and I said you."

"Now I'm excited. Maybe I'll talk to my mom."

Bobby's phone rang, and they both looked at it with surprised expressions. There were only a handful of people who could call him at this hour on a weeknight, but he expected no less than an earful of Alex telling him she'd heard Jenny was over. Motioning for her to be silent, he sat up and picked up his house phone receiver and carefully lifted it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Man, where are you? Dead? It's been at least three weeks since I got that junker, and now, what? You don't call, you don't write--"

"Lewis!" He sighed in relief and lowered himself back into his pillows. "It's just you...I thought I was in trouble there..."

"Why?" There was an infuriated groan. "It's about that thing in the papers, isn't it? There's all this talk if you cause that Whittaker woman to get let go, the internal affairs people are going to be all over your ass."

Bobby shook his head. "No, I didn't do anything...it's just a misunderstanding. The lawyer--Jensen. He thinks he understands me, and he thinks he understands Jenny, and he's being paid to get his client off. Don't...don't worry, o-okay?"

"Man, I never do!" Lewis laughed. "Never about Bobby. He takes care of his big-ass self."

Jenny, impatient, squirmed and put an arm over Bobby's chest, sidling up to him. "Who is it?"

There was a dead pause on the other end. Even the sounds of Lewis trying to light a cigarette were gone. Bobby sighed and tugged Jenny's hair, eliciting a squeak of surprise from her.

"You have her over? Now?"

"She's just leaving."

"Well! How long was she there?"

"Look, I expect this from Alex, but not from you." Bobby looked at the clock. "She's leaving and I'll call you after I get my ass cooked with gas tomorrow, okay?"

"You're not worried, now cut that out!"

"No, I'm not worried, but I can't pretend it's no big deal. I'm on trial for having a girlfriend. That's what it all comes down to. I'm not allowed this because before, for some reason, I was infallible. Even with the suicide, and Nicole, and everything else." He inhaled deeply. "I am touchable now because I fell to the graces of men. It isn't right, and I'm not worried because I have a shred of faith in humanity. Now, if you'll let me get back to sleep--"

Lewis answered softly, "All right, but after you do that trial thingie, you call me, okay?"

"On my way to visit my mom, sure."

"I'll drive you. I fixed up my Caddy with your old parts."

"Fine, that's fine." He leaned toward the bedside table. "G'night, Lewis."

"Night, Bobby."

Jenny released a sigh as he hung up the phone and positioned himself beside her again, aware she wasn't as close as she had been a moment before.

"It really is three in the bloody morning, isn't it?"

He closed his eyes and grunted in response.

She sighed yet again. "I hope Brock taped that documentary for me."

"Which one?"

"Pygmies in Java. I've watched it before, but I find it fascinating. If I wasn't so art-oriented, I might have liked sociology or anthropology. What people used to think, used to ritualize...it's all very fascinating." She poked him in the chest. "You agree, I can tell. You're a psychology kind of guy."

"In my youth."

"At least some parts of men age well." She gave him a kiss on the cheek and rolled out of bed. "And good luck at the trial tomorrow. Don't let them wipe you all over the floor."

"They shouldn't be able to. It requires demonization. I can avoid that." He smiled from his half-asleep position. "After all, I still have my girlish good looks."


	13. Pathological

_Author's Note:_ poutpout No reviews? You don't love me anymore? Fine, I guess I'll just...pretend...sob

* * *

When the bailiff came to the witness benches to summon Goren for his testimony, he wasn't surprised to find the detective snooping around the room, reading book titles, looking at the paintings, and stealing glances behind some of them before arranging them in perfect straightness.

"Detective? You've been called as a witness."

Releasing the painting he was holding an inch or so off the wall, Goren straightened and arranged his tie. "Well, my stay of execution is over." He shook the bailiff's hand with a dead look in his eyes. "Thanks, friend."

Instead of escorting Goren to the stand, the bailiff went back to his normal post, wondering just how eccentric he could get before he alone defined "crazy."

The swearing in process, though hardly laughable, was almost amusing to Goren, who took a seat and unbuttoned his suit jacket before crossing his right leg over his left, resting his right ankle on his left knee.

"Could you please state your name for the record?"

Goren recited every letter, his title, rank, and gave a weak smile at the end, waiting for the nasty smile from the big-toothed attorney across the counselor tables between them.

"Good morning, Detective Goren."

"Please, call me Bobby." He tilted his head, noticing the predatory smile lighting up on Jensen's face.

"No offense intended of course, but you don't look like a Bobby."

Goren decided looking laid back would only impress the lawyers and judge, and it was the jury that mattered. So he sat up and put his elbows on his knees and picked at his fingernails, shrugging a little. "You know...mothers give out nicknames before they know their sons are going to be well over six feet and join the army."

Smiling with a slight squint in his eye, Jensen moved back to his table and returned with a handful of photos. "For clarification, your honor. All the photos which were allowed to remain in evidence, I'm asking for Detective...well, _Bobby's_ opinion."

"Proceed."

Goren held out his hand and took the photos, sifting through meaningless Christmas party ones, blanching only a little at the markedly amusing photo of Jenny vainly attempting to coordinate herself in her dress while Goren stared at what could have been her chest or her face. Either one, he had a moony sort of lovesick look on his face.

He was picking through them, trying to look a mix of embarrassed and stoic. The last photo, which had barely squeaked into evidence, was the one of Goren and Jenny ice-skating in town. It seemed like meaningless drabble for a court hearing, but to Goren, it hit the intended mark.

"What about these?" He handed the photos back, determined now not to woo the jury.

Jensen shrugged. "Well, this is more for show than anything else. I mean, neither of you deny a relationship, is that right?"

"I don't deny one, no." He smiled. "I'd like a copy of a few of those, if you don't mind, actually."

"We'll see." He fingered the last photo. "I paid big bucks to get this."

Goren bit back a curse, but envied the lawyer's affinity to his craft.

"My question for you, Bobby, regards a timeline, a certain interesting correspondence has arisen recently, and I want your help."

"But of course." He shifted to look at the calendar Jensen was preparing. He chose a marker which would bleed through the thin sheafs of paper he'd used for his presentation board.

"When did you go on your first date with Miss Cooper?"

"Ah, November...twenty-seventh, I believe."

Jensen circled the mentioned date and nodded, giving the jury a meaningful look. Goren tilted his head to the side, seeing through the thin paper other things written on a different calendar. He panicked briefly, wondering what would be coincidence, and what would look like evidence.

"Ice-skating?"

"December sixteenth."

"Sex?"

"Which time?" He asked, tilting his head the other way.

"Your first time, of course."

"Fifteenth of December."

"And the day you took Cora into your home and the day you removed her."

"November twenty-fifth, and November twenty-ninth."

Jensen ripped the sheet off, revealing a number of black circles on a red calendar which was littered with dates and significant events from the trial and the booking of the Whittaker family.

"You took Cora in. Nothing there." Jensen tilted his head, looking thoughtful and mocking Goren. "Here, though, on your first date, Mrs. Whittaker was taken to Riker's for the first time." He pointed elsewhere. "And here, which is what I'm most interested in..."

Goren couldn't read the print from his position, but he remembered leaving work to go skating, and hearing that whispered conversation, and learning--

"Lana Whittaker was arraigned. Everyone assumed she would plead guilty. That night you got lucky, Bobby. You slept with a woman just about half your age." Jensen raised his eyebrows, nodding with a shrug of indifference. "Okay, fine. The next day, your girlfriend, who so loves Christmas and the Christmas Spirit, goes ice-skating with her boyfriend, who she simply adores. You both found out she pleaded not-guilty, didn't you? And then what?"

"And then we figured she'd just get herself thrown back into prison at the trial. We didn't expect to be put on trial ourselves." Goren hissed.

"But--"

"Are you aware of the theory of coincidences? If you _ever_ plead circumstantial evidence, if you ever use that card, I could have your ass in a hypocrisy seat so fast your head would spin." He inhaled deeply sensing the jury's rapt attention. "The trial goes on and I don't know what happens on what day. Unless Jenny followed...unless she followed the newspapers and media without sleep for three months, she couldn't have known about those dates coinciding. She couldn't have _rewarded_ me for something she didn't even know happened, and why should she if I had inadvertently done it? I don't arraign the perps, I just bring them in! And I _don't_ plant evidence or--"

"Detective!" The judge banged his gavel. "Please! Allow for questioning to continue."

Goren took several deep breaths, now upping the ante.

"I guess all this fancy footwork is lost on you, isn't it?" Jensen smiled and pulled a chair up. "So why don't we just be honest in our motives with each other?"

"Sure."

"I mean to prove you, at the very least, acted in the interest of yourself to win over Miss Cooper by wrongfully accusing my client." Jensen loosened his tie.

Goren rolled his lips inward a moment, and then just shook his head. "You could have done better. Why not just say I made a _mistake?_ Why am I malignant about it? I wouldn't want to ruin an innocent woman's life for a roll in the hay. First, I'm a grown man. Second, she was into me before I realized it, and third, your client is _guilty._"

Jensen sat up straighter now, making the interrogation more intimate but still intimidating on some level. "So why do the dates match up?"

"In the news that night," Goren searched his memory. "I heard three women were held up at gunpoint in a convenience store somewhere in northern New York. They were released because a cop my partner's sister once dated put himself in danger. That night being December fifteenth. Was I being rewarded for that too?"

"Did you act irrationally, do you think? To win her over?"

"In some ways, sure. I am human." He gave the man a steady look and smiled. "But my head was always in the game I was playing."

"So, how did you woo a young lady?"

Goren shifted, rolling his eyes privately.

"Asking the wrong question again, Bobby?"

Goren leaned forward. "It is more important to you that you prove Mrs. Whittaker is innocent than you prove I am a dirty scoundrel. I have a better track record. No affairs, no children that don't belong to my husband, nothing suspicious at all except what I can only call a minute coincidence, and I do hate using that word."

"What motive, if any, did you and your partner Detective Eames establish for my client?"

"She was already looking at other men for sexual favors, her husband didn't seem to be willing to cut her loose, and he was sinking all their new money into a dream he'd harbored...harbored--he'd had this dream since high school, maybe before. She was jealous and helped her daughter dispose of his body before he was dead. By putting his head in the toilet, as the fingernail we found proved, she drowned him. She drowned him." Goren blinked. "And if putting that woman in jail is wrong--"

"Jealousy? That's your great motive?"

"My motive?"

"Her motive, the one you decided to assign my client."

Goren put his elbow in his hand and covered his mouth, observing the lawyer, and then calmed. "The physical evidence supports her guilt. If she doesn't admit guilt, we have to reason with the human mind to establish motive. She went from a promising young woman to a stay-at-home mother. Her husband took money they would have shared if they were younger and she hadn't stopped working to take care of the children, and tried to start up his dream, excluding her from it. I don't propose to know Mrs. Whittaker intimately, but I know a woman scorned, and I know for a fact she killed her husband. I know the world isn't full of reason for everything and we live in a random world. If that isn't her motive, I really don't care. It doesn't make me lose any sleep at night." He blinked and cocked his head at the stormy eyes of the defense lawyer. "It didn't take long for the prosecution to present their case, did it? One day? One witness?"

"Detective--"

"Just saying." He raised his hands in defense, absent-mindedly scratching his temple. "This distraction...well, guilt isn't determined by my sexual prowess." He smiled brilliantly.

* * *

ADA Carver straightened his tie before he stood up, and then removed his glasses, rubbing his tired, Visene-soaked eyes. He too loosened his tie and took his chair up to the stand, looking at the now relaxed detective who had all but demolished the defense lawyer through a series of believable and truthful answers.

"Afternoon, Detective."

"Counselor," he acknowledged, and crossed his legs again, feeling a little warm in the crowded room. A press reporter snapped his photo, the hundredth it seemed.

"How's Jenny doing with this whole trial?" Carver asked, tilting his head.

Goren shrugged and wrinkled his nose. "She's busy with the bar. Burying herself in there. She gets upset otherwise."

"How did you come to the decision to bring Cora Whittaker into your home?"

Goren realized he was trying to toggle the questions to see if he could focus on different subjects without becoming flustered. Switching gears, he blinked slowly and smiled carefully. "When I first went to the house, I thought it'd be best to let my partner talk to the wife alone, but I wanted to hear what she was saying. So I went into the kitchen and met her youngest daughter, Cora. She seemed to like me, and let me sit with her while my partner interviewed the wife. When we had to arrest the family, she still seemed to trust me so I thought it'd be best to ease her into the social services program via me rather than thrust into foster care and then into an adoptive family. At least I was familiar to her."

Carver nodded, indicating he'd listened. "What perfume does Jenny wear?"

"Myrrh, from some place downtown. It's more of a salve, though." He smiled again, appreciating Carver's tactics.

"I take it you like the scent." Carver smiled.

Goren nodded, shifting and feeling another flash go off in the other corner of the courtroom.

"What alerted you to the possibility Mrs. Whittaker had helped dispose of the body, and, ultimately kill Mr. Whittaker?"

"Fingerprints and blood evidence. Indications from the children, who confessed to the crime. A fingernail, and manner of death." Goren felt his throat tightening in a familiar way.

"Were you nervous when you asked Jenny out the first time?" Carver smiled in a friendly sort of way.

"Erm..." He felt a blush maybe lighting on his face. "I pretended to be more...confident. I wasn't sure if...she--I knew she'd say yes, but I wasn't sure if it would...well." He cleared his throat, and a few female jurors seemed to be giggling at him. "Yes and no." He finished lamely.

"How did you determine Mrs.Whittaker was more than an accessory after the fact?"

Goren struggled for a minute to pull his eyes away from the mental image of Jenny grinning at him, waiting for him to cough up the question she could answer, and focused on the question. "The medical examiner called and said the cause of death wasn't blood loss as we thought, but drowning. There was blood and toilet water in the victim's lungs, from the toilet he'd been found in. With the children's statements and physical evidence, we upgraded the charges."

"No further questions, your honor." Carver sat.

"Redirect, Mr. Jensen?"

"No, your honor." Jensen sat again and scribbled in his notes.

The judge looked at his watch and started scribbling in his notes. "Court will recess until tomorrow for closing statements and rebuttals. Thank you." He stood and left before the bailiff could make a big to-do about standing and whatnot. As soon as he was gone, Goren stood and removed his suit jacket, sighing gently and waiting until Deakins could attack him.

"Well done."

He glanced at Jensen and smiled at the lawyer's snide comment. "Yeah, thanks. Justice is the winner, of course. We both know you're just doing your job. And for just doing your job, you're doing all right."

* * *

Jenny poured herself a full glass of scotch and allowed her head to fall and rest on the bar-top, the back of her tank top pulling up along her back to reveal a bare patch of pale skin. She covered her face and seemed to sink into a stupor. Around her, the world seemed to dull except for two people dusting their hands near the newly finished stage. The Christmas lights, decades old, surrounded the bar in fading twinkling colors. Jenny popped a lightbulb and watched the other lights dim and then go out. Closing her eyes again, she tilted the glass toward her lips and let a few drops slide down the side of the glass. She licked them off.

"Vietnam sleep deprivation ended hours ago, dearie. Why don't you go home and get some sleep?" An arm slid around her shoulders and squeezed her head into a sweaty nook. She coughed into the odor and pushed blindly, feeling foggy and weary.

"She's worried about that guy, isn't she? The one she's been dating?"

"Mr. Cop?"

"Brock, shut up." Jenny turned her head away.

Brock took the seat behind her and took an ice cube from the front bar freezer, swiveling around and drawing a wet, cold line across the bare patch of skin on her back, causing her to jerk upright, her eyes wide with shock. "You said the same thing when Michael Nolan asked you to the Prom and then got arrested. You were terrified he might not get out in time to pick you up."

There was a derisive snort and Andy dropped into the seat on Jenny's other side, plopping his face down beside hers, which had fallen back to the mahogany surface almost as soon as she wiped the cold water from her spine. "This is how you are when you're lovesick, huh?"

"Boys have a funny way of cheering other people up." She replied from a tangle of dark hair. "Girls, contrary to popular belief, don't always like to be ribbed like 'one of the guys.'"

Brock reached over and pulled her, stool and all, closer to him, between his long, spread legs, and jerked her into a warm hug. Resting his chin on top of her head, he let out a tired sigh and pinched her thigh. "Better?"

"My boyfriend will be jealous."

"Yeah, well, I was here first, and I'll always be here, unlike boyfriends, who come and go. Especially the older ones."

Andy giggled again. "Ah, but _his_ gray, it's _distinguished,_ right? That's the way it is when women like older men. Harrison Ford and Sean Connery, their gray hair is _distinguished_ or _gentlemanly._"

Brock laughed, causing Jenny's head to bob with the spasms in his chest. "The only time I saw him out of a suit was when he was in the apartment--"

Andy chorused a healthy laugh back to Brock. "Yeah, and his birthday suit looks no better, hey?"

"Toothpick legs may want to stop provoking the peanut gallery if he wants his reproductive rights to remain intact." Jenny growled and turned hateful eyes toward Brock. "Hypocrite."

"Hypocrite?" Brock laughed. "Who, me?"

Jenny reached up and yanked a single hair in the front of Brock's pronounced widow's peak, holding it under his nose with a smug smile. His swarthy complexion paled considerably and he batted away his first gray hair, knocking it from her hands to the ground with a frenzied, girlish slap. Jenny burst into laugher, coupled with Andy's, and then sobered, sipping her scotch and sinking back into Brock's unconditional hug.

After a pause, Andy poured himself a scotch as well, his on the rocks, and then nibbled his lower lip before asking, "So, Jenny...what's this guy done for you? Anything?"

"He carried me twenty-seven miles across a desert to an oasis where he carved me a statue of Zeus. He did all of this after crushing a coal into a diamond and buying me a puppy." She blew her bangs from her eyes and smiled cheekily at Andy. "Why, what did _you_ do for me, luv?"

"It's just...he's absorbed with something else every time he gets handed a new job at the police station. You hardly see him except when he can take the time off. I mean, doesn't he wonder if your schedule permits? You're on trial because of him--what if it happens again?"

"Geez, man, there are things you tell your friends--"

"Oh, lay off, dickweed. I'm not holdin' on. I'm just worried. This new guy is playing some card..."

"You sure you're not jealous?"

Andy took a gulp of the scotch and winced at the burning in this throat before looking at Jenny, curled indifferently against Brock's protective chest. "I'm sure. Just worried for the dumb little--"

"You can't say a bad word about any of the men I've dated, Andy." Jenny stuck her foot out, blindly kicking at the place she'd last heard his voice. "I like Bobby."

Andy snorted. "Bobby. He looks like 'Killer.' Or 'Middle-Aged Accountant.'"

Jenny looked at him, sizing him up. She didn't date purely on looks, but besides Andy's insatiable appetite for rock music, that was all Jenny had appreciated about him when they'd dated. Honey blonde hair, curiously bright blue eyes--such a rare combination in males--and a roman nose, accented by high cheeks and dimples. She hated how attractive he was, but thanked him he was as obnoxious as he was. It made it much easier to pry herself from his perfectly tanned arm and slightly goofy smile just long enough to throw an insult at his skinny legs.

"Get back to me later about that, chicken-feet."

He crossed his Converse sneakers over one another self-conciously, aware of his scaly, pasty feet and how the lack of surfing had tenderized them so that gravel was too painful to walk over. Before he'd moved from California to the East Coast, he would have been able to walk over broken glass without breaking his indifferent stare.

"Elbow," Brock wheezed, and Jenny pulled her elbow from his gut, arranging herself more daintily.

"Really, though, what do you see in him?"

"Did you know the lawyer at the trial asked me the same thing?" Jenny sat up, swallowing more of her scotch. "It's his shoe size, wouldn't you know?"

"Really? You went with the--with him? For sex?"

"We didn't bump into each other in the bar and exchange fluids, no." She rested her elbows on the bar. "Can I have a ciggie, please?" Andy dug out his cigarettes, which he'd been slowly and quietly been attempting to quit smoking for four years now, and let her have one, lighting it for her and patiently awaiting the answer to his question.

"So?"

"You guys speak my language musically. I love you both." She took a slow, loving drag on the Winston Ultra Light. "But I speak more than one language, and though music may be my favorite, it's not my first language. My first love was not the guitar, it was not Janis Joplin, and it was not this lifestyle. It's where I want to be now, but it's not all I am, you dig?" She rubbed her palms to her eyes laughing. "Oh, any minute I'll start going on about how my soul is like a bird and how sometimes, man, when I really, like, get into it, man, it'll just _fly..._"

"So, it's like the Mexican migrant workers?" Brock clarified in a confused tone. "They learn Spanish first, but English means money, but they don't marry Americans?"

"You're an idiot." Andy sighed and lit himself a cigarette, promising (and lying) to himself he'd just smoke the one, or maybe even just half the one. "What'd you speak first?"

"Bad childhood." She took another long drag. "He doesn't talk much about his. I know his mom's...delicate now, and his dad hasn't been there for him. Mine died and I pretty much left my mom."

"But you and Jake had each other."

"Yeah, Jake." She laughed, shooting smoke out her nose in amusement. "He's the good one. I'm the evil twin, right?"

Brock lifted his hand and rubbed up her back once, resting his palm on the back of her neck. "She didn't do anything for you other than give you a roof and some food. You needed more, and when you both lessened your expectations, you got what you needed. All you ever need is what you need, right?"

"Why would you gravitate to that kind of person?" Andy asked in a confused voice, resting his cheek in his hand, a cigarette tucked in between his lips, to the side, the ash threatening to fall at any second.

Jenny pushed an ashtray under his chin and looked at the glowing tip of her own smoke. "We're not diseased, we damaged folk. Just because I didn't grow up in Beverly Hills--"

"Hey, neither did I."

She turned her famously stormy eyes on him and smiled weakly. "You see me on the swings, going down the slide, sitting upside down in the recliner, singing to myself? Would it shock you to hear that's just the way I deal with _me?_"

"Like you have to deal with yourself--"

"Never mind. This is why I have Bobby, remember? He knows what it's like. That's why he has his job, and why he loves his job, and why he speaks my language." She finished her scotch and looked at her watch. "I should call him and see how the trial went. I'm not sure if we can talk yet, with it still going on. Maybe I should use a payphone."

"You didn't come home the night before." Brock pointed out. "Amy and Trina said you must have crashed on the couch."

"That's girl-talk for a booty call." Andy reminded Jenny promptly.

Jenny looked at her watch again. "Yeah, I'm going to call him."


	14. Delusional Jealousy

_Author's Note: _All will be explained in the following chapter, my lovelies. Just trust me, please?

* * *

Bobby stood in front of his refrigerator, debating with himself whether he should drink a soda or a beer. The latter sounded much more appetizing, but he only had the one, and he didn't see enough time to go shopping with just a hanful of days left in the trial before the jury would be out to negotiate a verdict. He could hear the sounds of "Mythbusters" in the background of his surprisingly quiet apartment.

Muffled only barely, the sound of his cell phone ringing filled the apartment. He sighed, leaving the fridge open, and picked up his phone from his coat pocket and flicked it open without checking the screen.

"Goren,"

"Salutations, boy-toy."

"Thank you for the reward December fifteenth, dear lover!" He laughed and walked over to his fridge again. "I did put that wonderful woman in jail. I deserved that night of...how'd he put it? Scoring with a woman half my age?"

"He's exaggerating. I'll take you clubbing. It'll knock off ten years from you. Or add another ten."

"A risk I hope you're willing to take." He cleared his throat dorkishly. "Would you mind if I wore my argyle socks?"

"Only if I can too!"

He selected the soda, a month-old remainder from a six-pack of Dr. Pepper Eames had brought over to run over suspects one last time before they served a late-night search warrant. He sat on his couch and slowly tilted back, spreading himself over the couch with a happy groan.

"Did you do okay today?" Jenny asked in a lazy voice.

"I did fine. His case isn't as solid as it seems. He's doing a good job showing coincidence and circumstance, but all of that Carver is sure to obliterate--it's not as dramatic as I thought it was. Though it was fun sneaking around late at night, wasn't it?"

Jenny was quiet, amused somehow in her silence, and then she sighed. "Did you go on your play-date with Lewis?"

"Just got back."

"Good. Did he grill you?"

"The uh, pink panties. He wormed it out of me."

"Hmm, I'm not getting a proper read on you yet, Robert. Do you want to be punished, or are you toying with me?"

"Ah, ha..." He turned down the volume on his television. "Nothing...leather."

"No, of course not. Pink panties. I'm thinking handcuffs. You can get your paws on those, can't you?"

"I've been known to...obtain a couple. Only when I have a suspect--obviously."

Jenny laughed and Bobby turned on his side, tucking an arm under the pillow he'd crunched on the end of the couch.

"Lewis said he'd like to meet you sometime. His new car--the one he built out of pieces of my old one...he's itching to show it off and have a pretty girl ride along."

"I see you volunteered me." Jenny seemed to creep into his apartment via his left ear. "My days as a hood ornament ended before they began, but I do enjoy being a hot rod mama. I'm in."

"Excellent. The day the trial ends, we'll be seen in public together. I'm thinking...at the reading of the erm, verdict." He opened the bottle of Dr. Pepper and held it to his lips. "You should wear fire engine red lipstick and give me a big swack in front of Jensen. Leave big fat lip-marks on me."

She giggled. "An ass-grab wouldn't hurt."

"Good idea. I'll pencil that in."

"I was actually thinking...whatever the outcome, we should have dinner the night it's over. I can cook."

"It's my turn to cook. I got you into this anyway."

"If I hadn't informed you what was in an Orgasm, none of this would have happened."

"You underestimate Alexandra Eames." Bobby chuckled and took a gulp from his soda. "Where are you?"

"The Back Door. We're changing the name soon, though."

"To what?"

"The Hardware Store."

Bobby laughed and shook his head carefully. "Now men ducking out for a pint to avoid chores can watch the game and claim to be making a trip to the hardware store for that caulk the bathroom tile has needed for six months, right?"

"They're my main clientel! I must cater to their needs." Her tongue clucked a little. "Speaking of catering to one's needs, how's little Cora?"

"Good. She just had a birthday...she's three now."

"Visiting Uncle Bobby?"

"Now and again. I've been busy. This is a hectic...I dunno, actually. I should send a letter. She's gone through the Brothers Grimm about six times already."

There was a long pause on the other end, and Bobby listened to her take in a shallow breath and hold it. The sound of a match being struck was faint, and he closed his eyes as two male voices met over the sound of Jenny letting out her sigh.

"Are they worried about you?"

The line crackled a little and the sound of a billiard table rumbling interrupted Jenny's hestitant reply. "Andy's jealous of you."

"Did he say so?"

"No, but he wants to know why the hell I'm with you when I've got to testify in court for it. He's touchy, though. I told him it was the sex."

Bobby smiled to himself, turning the volume on his television off. "I'd like to think so. What about Brock?"

"Same as always. And fending Andy off. He's a joy." She groaned a little. "I need a vacation. You want to take one? We could go to Maine and go rock climbing, or hiking. Or camping! I love camping. Do you fish?"

"I can't. Not after all the work I've missed for the trial. Maybe next month, but unless I take three years of sick days out now--"

"How many years has it been since you took a sick day?"

He opened his eyes. "Just two."

"Were you sick the day you took it?"

"Yes. A flu."

"Who gave it to you?"

"Lewis. He puked in my shoes and then fell asleep in my bathtub. A joy to clean up in the morning."

"So, next month let's go fishing and camping in Maine."

"It's winter, dear. It'll be colder that far north, too."

"Ice-fishing. We'll cancel the camping part and get a...bed and breakfast. We'll go to one of those. I find those on lakes and rivers all the time. I'll bet the bass fishing is great this time of year. At least some type of edible thing. What do they have in Maine?"

"Are you okay, Jenny?" Bobby sat up then, noting the desperation in her voice.

He heard her smiling. "I'm fine, Bobby."

"Why are you running, then?"

"Not running. Taking a vacation. I'll come back. I mean, would, if I went."

"With me or not?"

She seemed to grow meek, and Bobby marveled at the shy silence. "I dunno. I've got a lot here, but the music scene I'm in is the same all over. I don't need New York. I don't need the talent agents or the promises of fame and fortune."

"So, why New York?"

"My mother, my brother, Brock...they're all here, and I need them, I guess." She cleared her throat impatiently. "Why are you evading my question?"

He folded his arms as he lay back on the couch, letting the pillow hold it up. "I was just concerned you were bothered by the court ordeal. You've put in a call for me and tried to talk me into a camping trip in the dead of winter. It's disconcerting."

The jukebox started to blare over Jenny's even breathing. A Journey song started to play, and Bobby looked at his watch. "Tell the boys to keep the table hot."

"Bobby, you shouldn't--"

"I know when I'm breaking laws. No more trial-talk. I'm there because...because I want to see you and I want to see that you're all right. We'll shoot some pool and I'll get you a cab home. I'll have a talk with Brock and Andy--see to it...the proper care and feeding of my Jenny until I can do it myself. Jensen isn't retarded--he'll...I trust he'll notice I'm popping into neighborhoods you frequent..."

"Your Jenny?"

"Mine."

"Take off your slacks and fancy socks. Jeans and sweater, please."

He looked at his rumpled suit clothes. His mother had given him a happy look when he'd showed up clean-shaven and nicely pressed.

"Something soft and fuzzy. Do you have something like that? No more itchy wool."

He sat up, groaning. "I'll find something. What about you?"

"Jeans and a tank top."

"Bra status?"

"Lemme see...ooh, I've had this since high school."

"Comes off easy?"

"Oops, there it goes."

There was a disgruntled shout in the background.

Bobby laughed. "Which one?"

"Who else? Brother-Brock. I'll stash it. Tit for tat."

"I'll leave my bra at home, too."

She grinned through the phone and then seemed to sober. "Baby, what kind of scotch you want?"

"Whatever you're having."

* * *

It was Jenny's second cigarette in one hour after a six year hiatus from Tobacco-World. She was bent over the table for a tricky shot, the stick angled perfectly between carefully placed balls, and the tip of her stick was just about to strike the white cue ball. She waited, faking out the two men who knew her pool-hustling days in the Bronx a short five years before.

"Miss it!" Andy groaned when she lifted her eyes, giving him her teasing smile. Without taking her eyes off him, she struck the ball and made her shot, standing and scratching the chalk over the tip.

"I believe the pot is up to four hundred seventeen dollars now, yes?"

"Andy doesn't know when to stop." Brock shook his head, sitting on the spectator's seat again, folding his arms happily. "This is why I don't even try."

Jenny sipped more scotch and looked at her next shot. She almost cursed; if she'd stopped showing off and looked at the damn cue ball, she might not have left herself in such a rotten position for her next shot. Biting her tongue, she swiveled around the table, and switched her striking arm.

"You can't do that!" Andy protested.

"Of course you can! Use what you got, honey!" She fluttered her eyelashes at him.

The door to the bar creaked and a large figure with hunched shoulders eased inside, shaking snow from his hair. Bobby stomped snow off his shoes, which he'd neglected to exchange for boots, and looked up, smiling when Jenny pushed her pool stick into Andy's arms and floated over to him, barefoot and stubbing out a cigarette in an ashtray. While he unzipped his coat, she leaned up on her tiptoes and threw her arms around his neck, lifting herself a precious few more inches to plant a scotch-flavored kiss on his mouth.

"What's the score? You winning?" He tossed his coat over a chair and bent, looping his arm around her waist and meeting her eyes.

"I'm about to win five hundred dollars. If I can convince Andy to up the ante a little more." She turned around while Brock played with the jukebox. "Then you and I can play and these losers can get lost."

"Let 'em stay. They're fine." He looked at her rotten setup, knowing she had to be the solid balls because the solids were lacking on the table and Andy was brooding by the side of the table farthest from her cue ball.

"I'll hop, flop, and stop." She waved her stick over the table.

"So, you don't think you're sinking this one?"

"I'll let you catch up, then I'll cream you." She struck the cue, watched it hop over one of Andy's balls, slap a few of hers half-heartedly, and then stop behind a wall of striped balls and the eight.

"Damnit, Jennifer!" Andy jabbed her with his stick, leaving a blue chalk mark. "You are a billiard-bitch!"

Brock cursed. "Shit! He was a karaoke-slut, wasn't he, Jen? Bruce just retooled his entire collection. It now consists of Beatles, Rolling Stones, and some rather colorful Byrds albums."

"Put on Sgt. Pepper." Andy commanded, bending over the table to meet Jenny's eye while she took her shot. "See if we can't distract the girl-wonder here."

"She's past those four, you'd think." Brock teased, punching some buttons on the jukebox nonetheless. "Just ask her to picture her precious boyfriend in his boxers or something."

Jenny popped her ball into the side pocket and sat up, giving her two pals a stern eye. "Cut it out!"

Andy lifted his eyes to the ceiling in silent thanks when she scratched her next shot. After she finished cursing at herself for the error, she winked at Bobby and yanked her tank top lower in the front, revealing a fair amount of cleavage. Bending over the table as if scrutinizing Andy's shot, she squinted her eyes and hunched her shoulders. Andy's arm seemed to jerk involunatarily and the cue ball sailed off the table, clinking across the carpeted floor quietly. He stood up, his hands clenched on he stick while his chin lowered, almost resting on his chest. He glared.

"You play dirty."

Bobby lifted his eyebrows. "She's only at fault if you didn't want to look!"

"If that were the case, you wouldn't be a cop." Andy said in a dangerous voice. "Every time a person was forced to do something even though they didn't want to--"

"It's called coercion." Bobby replied and poured himself a scotch, reaching over silently and pulling Jenny's tank top up to a more appropriate level. "And if every man on the planet were sex-obsessed, there would be a woman president. There's just...well, to be fair, a majority. The rest of the good population is just..."

"Gay?"

"Probably." Bobby sipped. "Or, maybe...you know, they don't have much to do with sex."

"Ah, conservative Christians!"

"Forgive Brock. He mistakes politics with intelligence. His idea of invigorating is foreign policy." Jenny lined up her shot and took it, knocking two balls into opposite pockets. "Mercy?"

"If I get another peek down that top, sure." Andy lit his second cigarette.

"He's smart and he'll kick your ass, Finch." Jenny knocked her last ball, leaving five of Andy's left on the table. "Pony up."

Jenny took her keys out and twisted the table lock a little, releasing the balls for a second free round of pool. Taking Andy's stick and forcing it into Bobby's hands, she prepared the table and took a step back, letting him break. Balancing his scotch on the side of the table, Bobby bent and took the striking shot, wincing with the feeble feel of the stick. Two striped balls went into the pockets, one in each of the far corners. He bit his lip gently, assessing the situation, and then swiveled his shoulder, popping the ball off a side and into a solid, which gently nudged another striped ball into the corner. He knew he was in a bad place, and simply knocked the balls around, leaving Jenny with a mediocre opportunity to catch up.

He watched her bend over the table to get her shot, swiveling this way and that way before finally settling. Her leg, he noticed, shook with the effort of holding herself off the table. She was almost spread over it, trying to reach for a stable shot. As she drew her stick back, he stopped her, patting her leg.

"Don't hurt yourself. Here, it looks like a trick shot, but if you loosen up your shoulders, which I know you can do since you play guitar..." He lifted her onto the table's edge and turned her around, standing between her legs. He arranged her stick along her back, setting her up so she was aiming it and holding it behind her back. Showing her the motions, he rolled her shoulder to loosen it and looked into her dark blue eyes, waiting for her coy remark. She simply nodded, and he noticed the playfulness subdued. She drew her arm at the odd sideways angle and struck the ball. Her solid ball, barely rolling, dropped into the corner pocket, and she squealed, whipping her arms in front of her to hug him.

"He's fraternizing with the enemy." Andy complained.

"He doesn't care if he wins." Brock muttered, playing with the jukebox some more. "It's part of being a grown-up."

"What? Tell that to Michael Jordan, and Steve Yzerman--"

"As a man and not a professional sports fanatic."

Andy frowned. "But she's good, she doesn't need help."

"Andy, you're completely missing the point." Brock turned on his bar stool and lowered his chin so he was look through his shaggy hair into Andy's wide, baby blue eyes condescendingly. "Which is better? Dignity? Or that?"

Andy turned his attention back to Jenny and Bobby, who were nose to nose, Jenny whispering in a pleased voice, her fingers sifting through Bobby's hair. The song pumping through the speakers had taken them into a light sway, and soon both of them seemed to have forgotten about the game of pool.

"He's a sneaky son-of-a-bitch." Andy whispered, leaning against the jukebox while Brock snorted, playing with the settings more.

"He's smart."

* * *

"So, Bobby...you like kids?" Brock lined up his shot, and took it. He swigged more rum-and-Coke and pointed his middle finger at Bobby, who was similarly equipped with a glass of liquor, crookedly lining up his next shot while Jenny pulled a brush through her hair and hummed with the jukebox.

"Sure, well-behaved ones." He laughed. "I have a feeling I'll be that father." He hiccupped. "The one that likes his kids, and to hell with all the others."

Brock leaned against Bobby's side and pointed with his stick. "Sure, with daughters. Yeah, no man is good enough. Christ, I got Jenny to go home when no one else could, and her mother just saw I had these big buck teeth and said she could do better. As if I wanted anything to do with a girl at that age." Brock pointed conspiratorally to Andy. "He still likes Jenny, but she don't like to know it."

"No shit!" Bobby straightened, buzzed on more than just liquor. He shook his head briskly to clear away all the fog and focused on Jenny, who was loosely tying her hair into a bun, wobbling uneasily on her two feet. "She's pretty."

"Jenny? Oh, here...I always told her I show these to her boyfriends." Brock dug out his wallet and picked through a few cracked photos to a picture of a young, long-haired, big-toothed eight-year-old girl with pale skin, unsettling blue eyes, and a very conservative gray ribbon tied in her unruly brownish-black hair.

"That's her, when? Third grade?"

"Second." Brock flipped the picture over, revealing the next one, a high school photo of Jenny, more recognizable with her carefree smile and band-oriented tank top. In the photo with her, which was professionally manufactured, a young man about her age with a similar smile, dreamy expression, and blue eyes. He had freckles and lighter hair, but it was obviously a family resemblance.

"They were twins?" Bobby hiccupped again, glaring at his glass of scotch and wondering just how many more he could stand before he had to stumble out to the curb and catch a cab.

"Still are." Brock nodded furiously. "Her and Jake. He's in Queens at an art gallery selling sculptures. He works mostly with copper and silver. She helps him make jewelry in the summer."

"The...picture in your wallet. More than one. Your living conditions." Bobby felt his smile causing his eyes to slit in a predatory way. "She says you never dated and you don't want much to do with her, but you do, don't you?"

"Like I tell her, I've always been there for her and I always will be." Brock's surprisingly sober voice dragged Bobby out of his rverie. "I'll be here through the bad break-ups and the family troubles. I've been here more than you'll ever be there for her in the future. You missed the worst years of her life, man. Don't take her best years from me." Brock's loopy smile returned. "Your shot."

* * *

Bobby had just hung up with Deakins, inquiring about the jury's verdict, which was slated to come in at any moment. He was halfway to Alex's apartment, and he had, during the last few minutes, remembered a drunken conversation with Jenny's roommate and friend, Brock Fletcher. An uneasiness had then developed, overriding his security with doubt and uncertainty, and he could only think of Alex when he needed a shove to remember he had worked his ass off to get where he was with Jenny. Now, off the phone with Deakins, he was boring a hole in the sidewalk as he walked, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, a hat pulled carefully over his ears. He could picture it already, popping in to see Alex on her last day off (hopefully) to ask her for assurance--no, _reassurance_ he had secured Jenny as his own.

Inside Alex's apartment, music was blaring. Bobby hesitated before knocking, realizing she was getting valuable cleaning done, but he figured it wouldn't take long for her to tell him he was retarded and send him on his way. The psychological need for reassurance was settling--he felt human and genuine. Insecure, but real.

Alex pulled open the door wearing her rattiest pair of jeans and a old sweatshirt with the neck cut out like a bad '80s pop star. Her hair, pulled back in a subby ponytail, wasn't dirty, but it wasn't clean. She looked at him, a mop held in her left hand and a bucket of Pine Sol and water in her right. She had been wrestling with the doorknob with her elbows for a few minutes.

"Whaddaya want?"

He decided to put energy into his response to indulge her need for this interruption to be important and important-sounding to her. Inhaling deeply, he waited for his nerves to surface on his face, and successfully captured Alex's sympathy.

"Bobby?" She leaned forward to see if she could determine the problem with him.

He slouched and shrugged, feeling sheepish for abusing his emotions in order to obtain what he needed, but enjoying how well he manipulated everything. "It's a Jenny problem."

"Talk quickly before my floor dries." She looked behind her at the kitchen floor.

He sighed, wondering how his plan had failed, and then sobered, standing up a little straighter. "I have a problem. Jenny lives with two men who have known her much longer than I have, and at least one of the two is in love with her, if not both of them..."

She lifted her eyebrows and smiled. "Oh, really? How do you figure?"

"The first, an ex...he's just an idiot. I don't worry about him." Bobby squirmed, squinting one eye at Alex unhappily. "The other is the friend that helped her discover music and took care of her when she ran away from home." He held his hands out. "And she has no idea, and she's the type to fall for her best friend."

"But?"

He lolled his head back and stuck his tongue out. "Buuuuut," he dragged the word out childishly. "But _I_ love her and it's not fair he could...he must think I'm doing the same, but I...Alex, am I...?"

"It's totally normal, Bobby. You know what you're feeling?" Her eyes were overly bright again. "Jealousy. You're jealous of him because he has history to back up his feelings, and you have your penis."

His eyes widened. "Alex!"

"Have you heard that word before? 'Cause I'd feel bad if you hadn't." She tossed loose hair from her eyes and pushed her mop forward a little bit. "Come on, really, what is this about?"

He found himself unable to speak, and blinked, realizing nothing and wanting nothing more than to have her spit out senseless girly advice and tell him to get lost.

"You're a hopeless mess." Alex seemed to grow a sneer, and her overly bright smile suddenly seemed defensive rather than polite, and Bobby blanched, realizing he had read her expression wrong for a very long time. "She's a...she's tugging you around. She has to know they love her, just like she got you to say you loved her."

"I didn't..." He cleared his throat, shaking his finger at her. "I didn't just _say_ it."

"Your theory with the petite woman pans out?" She put her bucket down and kicked it backward into her kitchen, sliding it along her linoleum. "So, what are you compensating for?"

"What did I do?" He frowned, indicating himself. "You're attacking me, what did I do?"

"You fell in love with that...that...idiot!"

He took a step backward and looked at Alex, who was giving him a harsh look. "You're wrong. I don't know what the hell has gotten into you--"

"So, what do you care two idiots love her for?" Alex's sneer turned into a slight smile, though it was weary and frightened. "You don't give a shit what I think of her, do you?"

"Do you really think she's--?"

"Bobby! See the forest for the trees, honey." She moved to close her door. "Fuck those guys. She loves you. She told you. She's sleeping with you, and she's writing songs for you right now. If one of those idiots tells her he loves her, she'll move in with you and you'll have her all to your goddamn self. Go chase her skirt and let me finish my goddamn floors, okay?"

"Eames--"

She shut the door.


	15. Generalized Anxiety Disorder

_Author's Note:_Not much to say here. Just a hearty "thank you" for reviewing, and encouragement to do more of the same. It literally makes my day to see people are reading my little piece of joy here.

* * *

Lewis was tinkering with a piece of a lawnmower engine. A beat up boom box, possibly constructed in the early '80s or late '70s was shooting out hundreds of decibles of "Bohemian Rhapsody." As he fidgeted with his socket wrench, he considered getting a bat and just beating the thing in. He usually didn't put together mini-dirtbikes for kids, especially when their mothers turned on the "single-working-mother" tired routine and then took _him_ out to dinner in an indirect way. She had planned it, right down to the red sweater she'd worn. He liked dark-haired women in red. It was just perfect.

"My laddy, tell me more." He finally looked out of the mower engine.

Bobby lifted his chin out of his chest, his eyes blank but aimed in the general direction of Lewis' voice. "I've got a girlfriend. Her roommates want her for themselves. I've got a good partner I want to keep. For some inexplicable reason, she's jealous of Jenny. That's the only reason she'd...kick me out--fucking long hours, like I can't take a break now and then. You wouldn't think Alex would be the one to wig out the minute...personal time." He growled a little and threw his leg over the arm of the recliner in Lewis' garage. "She makes things twice as difficult."

"If she needs to take her mind off things," Lewis cranked the fan cover one more time, watching the bolt skate across the floor and disappear under the sheet with his brand new car under it. "Damnit."

"She only likes you because you're proof I have friends. And now that I have a girlfriend, to hell with that! To hell with everything. I can't meet Alex for drinks after work, and I get the cold shoulder. I can't finish up paperwork because I have someplace to be, but I tell her to leave me some for when I'm early every freakin' morning, I get an Ice Queen routine." He held his palms up. "I bring her coffee every morning, I have been since...well, about a week ago, but yesterday she wouldn't even..."

"Don't blow a gasket, Princess." Lewis looked at his greasy watch and rubbed his face, smearing more grease around. "What time is your girl-wonder showing up?"

Bobby crawled to the sheet and pulled up the corner. "Ten minutes. But she'll be taking a cab, so give her a cushion."

Lewis took the bolt Bobby handed him and dropped it into an empty coffee can he was using to hold the pieces he couldn't hold onto while disassembling the motor. "So, what's up with Jenny? I know you're still waiting on the verdict, and Alex is a jealous wench, and the other one's roommates want a piece of her, so what's up with _Jenny?_"

Bobby closed his eyes, picturing what Lewis wanted to hear. "Nothing, I guess."

"Nothing, really?" He started on another bolt, his eyes on Bobby's. "She hasn't written anything new, or gotten any new gigs? How's her bar coming along?"

"You actually listen to me?" Bobby tilted his head.

"Not when you get that Lucy-in-the-Sky voice, no." Lewis turned his grin into a Goren-esque smile. "She smells like some hippie-dippie shit and cooks a really mean meatless chili!"

"Five alarm chili, bastard. Not four, but five. I am out of beer. It has been seven years since I have been _out_ of beer." He sat grumpily in his chair again and folded his arms. "And _goddamn_ Alex still hasn't called me to tell me why she wigged out."

"Calm down, Strawberry Sam. Your hippie-dippie girlfriend will be here."

"Yeah, and I'll have to tell her to watch out because Brock is after her." Bobby reached up and pulled his hair. "Passively, of course. He's terrified he'll lose her confidences in him if he stops playing big brother. And he will. Jenny doesn't like confrontation like that. She's too..."

"Pretty."

"This isn't a Mad Lib." He barked and turned his chin back into his chest. Silence resumed, and "Bohemian Rhapsody" absorbed the garage again.

Lewis dropped a second bolt into the coffee can and removed the fan cover, blasting air from a can of electronics cleaning equipment into the fan tube. Dust, papers, and grass roots shot out and the fan started to turn. He started screwing the cover back on with the wrench.

"Shitty trial." Bobby murmured in a grumpy, muted voice. "I can't believe it's taking this long to get a verdict."

"From what I heard on the news, the facts are up for grabs. The jury is mostly women, though."

"So?"

"So they'll eat up that lovey-dovey stuff." Lewis blinked. "Her smells and hobbies. The ice-skating agenda, and the other stuff."

Bobby smiled, leaning back in his newfound relaxation. "Deakins said she was quizzed on why she was attracted to me; the lawyer wanted to trip her up. She fed him some loopy stuff, which I'll...spare you from, I suppose, for now, and then caught his smirk. This lawyer was a snob, Lewis. You would have loved him." Bobby closed his eyes and put on a Jenny Act, opening his eyes again. "What describes attraction do you think? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I'll say his shoe size had something to do with it."

"Yeah, well, now the jury most definitely has swayed to your side, Detective." Lewis held his wrench up like a microphone. "We convincted Lara Whittaker because that detective has a romantic side. He likes long walks on the beach and mixed drinks in the rain. Oh, and that size thirteen shoe doesn't hurt, wink, wink, nudge, nudge!"

Adjusting his jeans, Bobby pulled on the sleeves of his long-sleeved shirt and looked at his feet, which were in an ordinary pair of Reebok sneakers. Proportionately, he was normal, he supposed. But in proportion to everyone else, somewhere between a ruin of a basketball player and Andre the Giant. A yellow cab stopped outside the garage, the front of its hood showing in the glass front door of Lewis' garage, which read he was open for business.

Jenny squirmed out the passenger side of the car and walked up to the passenger side of the front. The window went down and Jenny pulled money from her shoe. Bobby leaned, watching as she counted out fare and tip, and leaned in the window, her butt sticking into the wind as she reached for the cabby's hand. She slipped out, adjusted her coat and hair, and held her faux-fur collar up as she made way to the garage door.

"She here?"

Bobby nodded and stood up, ready to take her coat and introduce her. "Right on time."

Jenny wrestled with the wind and door a moment before unzipping her coat and worming inside. Bobby took the coat and hung it up beside his before turning to gauge Lewis' reaction. He was still fiddling with his motor, cursing under his breath.

"Neat!" Jenny exploded, startling Lewis and Bobby both. "This must be the new sporty thing, huh? Is she candy-apple red or that new blue?" She peeked under the sheet. "Red, I love it!"

There was a clunk as Lewis put his wrench in the coffee, can, turning to see what he might be able to say to her that she hadn't already figured out.

"It's cold in it, I'll bet. You rode up to see your mother in it, didn't you? Did he seal the convertible part to the body, or leave the original body work? What about the window seals? Notoriously shitty after ten years or so." Jenny rested her face on the sheet covering Lewis' baby. "My first car was a Thunderbird. An original Thunderbird."

"She's a car chick."

"No, she's...she's a..."

"She's a car chick, Bobby. You promised me--"

"I didn't know she was a car chick, or I wouldn't have introduced you." Bobby hissed. "Don't you dare!"

"No wonder Alex is jealous. She's a man's woman. She's a car chick."

Jenny turned around, and Lewis saw her face for the first time. Bobby noticed a light bruise on her jaw, just beside her ear, and felt a sort of rage envelope him. Lewis was no longer important.

"What happened? Did you get mugged?" He moved forward and touched her cheek.

"No, my son-of-a-bitch brother came home for a visit and we wrestled for a bit of nostalgic fun." She rubbed it. "I came out the better of the two." She turned, lifting her sweatshirt and t-shirt to show him a welt on her back. "I got a scratch and a bruise, and he's got a fat lip and a black eye. I do the facial damage." She turned, grinning happily.

Bobby frowned, pursed his lips, and pulled her into a hug.

"What?" She asked, muffled by his chest. "Like you don't have to smack around some idiot every now and then?"

"Every now and then. Not every time my brother visits."

"Because he doesn't, and if he did, you'd just wave your gun at him and he'd go back to New Orleans!"

"Lewis, get your eyes off her ass and don't say another word." He turned Jenny away from Lewis and kissed her bruise. "This is that friend of mine, Lewis. That's his car, and he likes car chicks."

She lifted her eyebrows. "Really? He'd like Trina much more than me, and Kara, in the bakery, her dad runs a mechanic shop. _She_ knows cars. I just had to do maintenence on my car. I don't know a thing about this car. Just what it might have in common with mine." She pointed to the lawnmower engine. "That and you blew a spark plug on that."

"I was getting around to that." Lewis said dumbly.

The car ride, complete with drafty, unsealed windows, was filled with good classic rock music and lots of laughs, including high school tall tales, embellishments, and tales of debauchery from both boys. Jenny seemed at ease, and it astounded Bobby how a little male bonding, especially with a man she'd just met, and the other she was dating, could put her into a relaxed, laughing way. She even allowed a few half-hearted jokes from Lewis when he commented how she was straddling the stick shift of his car. And Lewis, too smart (or was it stupid?) to be intimidated by Bobby's glare, continued to think of new ways to either embarrass Bobby or himself to keep Jenny amused.

After a length ride and half a tank of gas, Lewis pulled back into the garage and admitted he'd better get back to his lawnmower engine. Jenny, after purring and pawing once more at Lewis' wonderful car, allowed Bobby to put her in a cab and pay the fare for the ride home. She sighed wistfully as they pulled along the last road before the stop at his apartment.

"How was your morning?" He asked, tapping his fingers on his opposite wrist, locking his eyes on her face. Her eyebrows twisted just a little as if she had considered frowning, and then she shrugged.

"It was fine. We had some friends over last night. I've got at least three girls I knew from college who are ready to quit working at Applebee's to work for the Hardware Store." She grinned to herself and squirmed backward until she rested against his ribs, tugging his arm around her shoulders.

"What about your boys? Headaches finally gone?"

"Brock thought getting drunk three nights in a row might help." She giggled. "He slept through most of yesterday and today. Probably drinking now."

Bobby swallowed heavily and winced a smile carefully. "He cares a lot for you."

"Sometimes I wonder." She laughed carefully, as though her throat were tight. "He complains about how needy I am. Like I didn't hold him while _he _cried at his uncle's funeral, or convince him to put the knife down and never..._ever_ scare me like that again. Maybe that's my selfishness again, though." She turned her face up, looking at Bobby imploringly. "He's dear to me, Bobby."

"I know he is. And you're dear to him. You're practically his sister." He cleared his throat carefully, trying to make his timing perfect. "Except..."

"Except what? His daddy ain't my daddy?" She leaped on the defensive, and he felt dread bubbling away at his stomach; if he wasn't the first to tell her about Brock, he'd be the first person to be alarmed about it. And who was he to be annoyed about it, being the "new guy" who had just walked in and stolen her heart (supposedly)? He had no desire to break her heart and her friendship with Brock, but he couldn't deny the animalistic fear for _his_ property to survive the turbulent climax.

"So, which part annoys you more, Bobby?" Jenny turned her eyes up to him accusingly. "That he's dear to me, or that he's practically my brother?"

"It only bothers me how much he cares for you, and not because you think it's a brotherly feeling." He turned his face so his chin was pressed into her forehead and was pinning her to his chest. "It is brotherly in a way, but he...he'd have you...he'd want--no, he'd ask for you in a different way if you gave him the slightest inclination you wanted...he won't ask you, but if you gave him a green light, he'd jump on it."

"You think he wants to sleep with me?" She sounded as if she were about to either burst into tears or giggles.

"Not specifically, no. He'd love to date you."

"That's ridiculous." She sat up, cocking her eyebrow. "I'd love to date him. It means nothing unless--"

"Unless your friendship is just another sign of his love for you." Bobby replied in a solid, husky tone. "Whatever you want, you get it. You want just friends, you'll get it. But if he reads you wrong, he'll--"

"Bobby," she shook her head, giving him a slit-eyed look of disgust. Pushing on the door, she tapped the driver's head rest. "Let me out here please."

"Jennifer--"

"I'm going home to talk to him." She turned, giving him a dangerous look. "Damage control."

"There's no...damage." He felt a hopelessness enveloping him. "Baby, please, tell me you'll call--"

The same look of an almost wince interrupted her sneer and pushed the taxi door open more. "We'll see how things pan out with Brock."

He swallowed his pride a moment and contracted and curled his arms around each other, staring at her with a helpless pout taking over his face. He tried to appear more mature, but all he could think to do was stick out his lower lip and crease his forehead, which he did, fighting to find an Act that might be more desperate.

She hesitated and sighed, reaching into the taxi and touching his scratchy cheek. "Don't give me that look, Bobby. You're worried Brock might be serious about snatching me, but I'm going home to do one of two things." She smiled just barely. "Kick his ass, or come back and give you a big fat 'I told you so.'"

He swallowed.

"Notice how neither of those included me and Brock eloping?"

Half his face twisted into a garish smile.

"You don't believe me?" She frowned.

"No, I do...but..."

"I'll be fine. You should know, though, that whatever he tells me, I am not giving him up, no matter how jealous or crazy he makes you." She leaned closer again and lifted her eyebrows. "He's just a dumb boy, Bobby." She kissed him and he unfolded his arms, noticing the cabby lighting a cigarette and sighing unhappily. "He doesn't understand the difference between love and being in love." She shifted and straddled his lap, sliding her hands under his unzipped jacket and around to his back.

"I see where this is going." He breathed when she released his face from another kiss and smiled at him. "He's a boy. That leaves me the man, right?"

"Leaving all references to age and shoe size aside, yes." She pulled some of his hair, tilting his head back and kissing him again. "And I love you. Not at all like a brother."

"Thank God." He chuckled. "If you don't call tonight, what does it mean?"

"It means I'll be there for dinner and it's your turn to cook." She rolled her lips inward.

"Are you still mad at me, then?" He slid his hand up the back of her coat and played with the bottom of her sweatshirt, looking for the tattered ends he'd seen when she'd taken off her coat at Lewis'.

Jenny pouted her lips, tilting her head to the left a little. "No, and I wasn't really mad, I guess. He's been acting a little funny, like he just doesn't want to be here anymore. And he keeps gathering my stuff up and putting it in my room, like he's helping me...pack, or something. I think he expects me to pack up and move out. Move in with the new guy he doesn't think much of." She shifted her hips and purred into his ear. "But that doesn't matter."

"Christ, do not tell me Alex was right."

"What? That it doesn't matter who thinks what of who you love?" She pulled his cheeks and stretched his face. "Because girls figured that out a long time ago."

"While you're interrogating Brock, maybe I'll see if I can figure out why Alex got jealous." He pulled his head away, freeing his face.

Her eyebrows lifted. "She's jealous? Not of me, is she?"

"I don't know yet. Fair guess she's jealous of the time you take from me. I used to spend most of my free time in a reachable place at home or with my phone." He tucked some of her hair behind her ear. "She's annoyed I'm not as accessible as before."

"We're in the same position, honey." She kissed his forehead. "I'll be home for dinner."

"Bring wine!" He leaned out the door as she sprinted for the bus that was waiting at the stop half a block away. She waved to indicate she'd heard him and jumped onto the bus.

* * *

Alex opened her door for the third time that afternoon, and wasn't surprised to see her partner standing on the other side of the door, this time without his gentle, shy lie on his face. He was glaring, and the collar of his coat was halfway up, as if someone had been playing his hair or jacket before he'd come in the building. Her heckles on end, she simply folded her arms, aware he'd caught her in her sweats and without having combed her hair.

"Explain it to me before I jump to a dumb conclusion, Alex." He stuck his foot in the door as if fearing she'd slam it on him.

Reaching up, she adjusted his collar and smiled with thin lips. "I don't know what's to explain."

He removed her hand and turned his collar back up, baring his teeth. "You are jealous, Alex, and you aren't going to get away with ragging on Jenny for it anymore."

Alex's eyes widened and she coughed, laughing a little. "Jealous? Of what, her bra size? Because those can't be fun to run with, Bobby. They must smack her in the face--have you figured if they're real yet?"

"Yes, they are." He smiled at her flinch. "Don't ask questions you don't want answers to, Eames."

She made a sound like she was disgusted. "Ugh, Bobby--"

"Anything else you want to know? Anything else to help you see she's my girlfriend you're my partner?" He jabbed her in the shoulder. "That I did what you wanted? I...got a luh-life? Isn't that what you wanted? Are you disappointed now?"

"_Ugh,_ Bobby!" She reached up and pushed him back. "I'll give you some credit, you dumb oaf. Yes, I am annoyed you have a life now. Mostly because your life hasn't changed except you replaced your hand with someone with a matching IQ, which isn't as much as an insult as I might have hoped."

"No, no, you keep bringing up sex but you're not jealous of the sex. At least...I hope." He baited her shamelessly and set his face firmly for her reaction.

Without a thought in her ruthless head, Alex rolled her shoulders, contracted muscles, and let her right hand go sailing, dragging her palm across Bobby's left cheek and leaving a bright red welt. His face, turned in surprise, reddened with pain and guilt. He turned back, shock lining his face and causing his broad shoulders to hunch in dismay.

"How dare you." She whispered.

"I was baiting you, and you know that." He didn't move to touch his sore cheek, as much as it stung now that the impact was over. "You wanted to do that, you just wanted to wait for the right opportunity. Why? What did I _do?_"

"I thought you were smarter than...than a piece of ass!"

"Have you spoken to her? More than...you've only ever gotten a few words into her, and all you think you know about her is she headed off your little interrogation before you could get a word in edgewise. I thought that impressed you. You said you liked her! You set me up with her!"

"Did anybody ever tell you jealousy was rational, or did you just assume because you _aren't human?_" She seethed, her hands clenched at her sides. Bobby backed up a few feet to head off another slap, and had to rush forward to keep her from slamming the door.

"Damnit, Alex..."

"Get the hell out of here, Goren--"

"No, _tell_ me what it has to do with me! You can be jealous of Jenny all you like for whatever the hell you want, but you can _not_ take it out on me, especially if all I have to do is insinuate you've thought about sleeping with me to get a fucking black eye."

"Oh, relax. A cold compact and the swelling will go down." She made as if to back up and let him to prove herself.

"Start talking." He folded his arms, scowling at her a little.

She started to speak, and seemed to choke on her words. For a good thirty seconds he watched her huff through her nose and try to find the words, all the while giving him an accusatory look as if he'd caused her to frustrate herself with her sudden shutting down.

"If you...just talk, don't worry about it making sense--"

"And sound more like you?" She laughed a little and then shook her head, squinting at him. "I don't know why I let you put me through this. I don't need this. All you need to know is she's an idiot and she's got you wrapped around her little finger."

"Now, where do you get off calling her an idiot when you've said five words to her?" He shook his head, mirroring her expression.

"I..." She wrinkled her nose, searching for a snarky comment, or a grating insult, and then looked at her feet, curling her toes furiously. "My sister and I had a fight, and she...she told me she's moving to Augusta next weekend, indefinitely. Her husband is trying a new job opportunity."

"She's taking Nathan?"

"She's taking Nathan, and I'm not...well, she never said it, but I wasn't allowed to speak to him, and she's leaving in two days. And I've been too polite," she gave him a painfully snide smile, "to interrupt your newfound bliss for a big, fat shoulder to fall on. I'm _alone_ here, and I don't know two shits about that girl, and she's _stolen_ you. If I didn't see you smiling and...being as human as I've seen you, I'd think nothing changed. But, when I needed you...I was..." She squirmed and rubbed her elbow weakly, as if terrified of saying her thoughts aloud. Finally, she swallowed. "Abandoned."

* * *

"Don't just stand there. Put on the oven mitts." Alex reached between his open palms and pressed a pair of frilly blue oven mitts into his palms. "Or the cookies will burn. I don't bake often, and if you want to take any home, you'll do what's good for you and take them out of the oven." She put her hands on her hips and smiled while Bobby sighed and pulled on the mitts and pulled the twin cookie sheets out of the oven and placed them on her cooling sheets.

"There, damnit. You want put an apron on me and take my picture?" He turned and flinched when she tossed her pink apron over his head and tucked the ties behind his arms. He stood, an incredulous look on his face when she pulled out a Polaroid camera and took a picture.

"God damnit."

Alex smiled so brightly her eyes squinched shut into slits. "Some day the world will see this picture. This and the one of the off-duty prostitute sitting on your lap at the Block Party Club."

Bobby's eyes squinted a little. "These will cool on the way home. I need to start making dinner for--"

"Is it my day for coffee when we get back?"

"Yeah. But I can bring breakfast. Danishes or muffins?"

"Danish!"

"All right, down, girl!" He started sliding warm cookies into a cookie jar she wasn't using.

"Thanks for using up my cookie dough." She waved the developing picture under his nose. "And for the priceless memories, dearie. I'll frame this. After I make copies of course."

"It's about time you got a life, too, Alex." He blinked and smiled innocently.

"Yeah, yeah, get the hell out of here."

He looked at his watch and made a face as if weighing his options while Alex lifted the apron over his head. "Tomorrow I'll take you to your sisters. Or, you can drive us...but, I'll go."

She frowned, starting to open her mouth to protest. "Bobby--"

"She has no right to up and leave without letting you say goodbye to Nathan." Bobby handed her the oven mitts and took his share of the cookies. "If you need some oaf to stand behind you and look dumb and intimidating, I can do that. I can do more than that."

"Don't spread yourself too thin, Goren." She smiled, thanking him silently. "And don't spoil that girlfriend of yours."

"After we visit Nathan, you should come to dinner with me and Jenny. Bring someone." He pulled on his coat and hat. "A double-date, right?"

She squirmed, and nodded, and he could tell she felt a little immature for lashing out at both him and Jenny the past few days, since the trial when all communication had been severed. "Okay."

"You have my number. Hopefully we'll get the verdict soon and get back to work. I'm...not sure what to do with myself now that my weekdays are empty. Everyone _else_ has somewhere to be, it seems."

"Well, wherever you're supposed to be, be there." She blinked slowly, smiling carefully. "And know that if that place is a bed with Jenny, I am _not_ jealous of that and I have no problem popping you another one, big guy."

"I'd take it, gladly." He rubbed his cheek and stuck his tongue out. "Bye, Alex."

He decided to walk home, and stop at the local grocery store to pick up whatever he might need for supper, which he was planning to be Italian. Jenny had recently revealed a love of portobello mushrooms, and he knew he could do something garlic-related with that and put her into a food coma. She was bringing wine, he assumed, and he figured one of his favorites wouldn't go untouched. He was measuring up the prices, veal, mushrooms, butter, oil, garlic, and deciding if he had anything he could subtract from that list in his cupboards. He was about halfway down the block when he heard a bottle break against the pavement and a young man with his hair in wavy tendrils around his face, just a bit too long to be contemporary, ran his fingers through his mop and bent, picking up the bigger pieces of glass and looking for a trash can.

Some bright red soda was running across the sidewalk, and while Goren didn't delight in walking by someone in need of an extra hand, he had better things to do than pick up some young man's spilled milk, or soda in this case.

The man, squatting, looked up when Goren hesitated walking past the scene of the broken bottle. He finally bent and picked up the biggest pieces, tucking them into his palm with a hearty sense of time management. When he glanced up wordlessly, he nearly fell from his squatting position onto his ass. The man had Jenny's eyes. Not similar, but identical, and the shape of the face, however more masculine, and the color hair, the dark, wavy hair, and the same nose. The ears, the cheeks, they were mildly different, but the _eyes_, the strange, dark blue eyes he'd only ever seen on Jenny's face, were slapped crudely into this man's head. The man had a fading bruise circling his left eye and a small cut on his lower lip.

"You have a twin? Sister?" He choked out while the man frowned at Goren's obvious reaction to him.

Lifting an eyebrow, another thing which reminded Goren of Jenny, the man replied, "Yeah, what's it to you?"

"Jennifer?"

"Yeah. Hey, buddy, you don't have to help, you know? If you're just going to talk about my sister like some fuckin' psychic--"

The way his shaped his letters, all of it was reminiscent of a faded British accent, and Goren remembered Jenny's bruise, from her brother's visit. He looked at the red soda and the piece of the red bottle in his hand. It was some independently made Canadian soda--Jenny's favorite brand when she wasn't buying gallons of Canada Dry. He looked up from his hands and frowned.

"You gave her quite the whack on the face, Jake."

"She's all fine until I got her in a submission hold, right? Twist her arm far enough, she'll _finally_ let me give mercy." Jake smiled maniacally and then stood up, folding his arms. "You must be the boyfriend."

Goren stood up, too, tilting his head, towering over the shorter man. "Yeah, I am."

"And, if I'm reading this correctly," he poked Goren's clenched fist, "you don't appreciate me beating up on your girlfriend."

"I don't who would."

"And if you think you know me at all, _Bobby,_ you'll know what I'm about to say."

Goren nodded, smiling sarcastically. "You don't appreciate me screwing your sister, right?"

"Bingo. So, why don't we just let it all be, man?" Jake smiled in a similar way. "I'm not ever going to like you. Rule of siblings. You're not going to like me because she tricked you into thinking she's fragile. So, thanks for cleaning up my mess, but I'm not here for a staring contest."

"Neither am I."

"She didn't mention how much older you were." He looked at Goren's squared shoulders and groaned. "And you're a cop, to boot. Christ!"

"How long are you in town?" Goren turned his head, ignoring Jake's distaste.

"I've always been in town. I'm in another row with my girlfriend." He made a face, rolling his eyes. "Says if I don't marry her, she'll leave me for good. Third time she's done it."

"She's probably pregnant again." Goren put the glass in a nearby dumpster and started toward the grocery store. Jake, turned around, holding the rest of his imported soda, shouted after him. "Probably!"

Goren shopped, as he always did, lazily but without going to unnecessary bounds. He got his shopping done in a timely manner, got into his apartment in a timely manner, and got dinner in the oven at a reasonable time. He grew worried when she didn't call to say she'd be there soon, or she was running late, and forced himself to set the table and tidy up. Stuffing inumerable books and papers away was busywork, he understood, but it was soothing.

A heavy, slow knock shook his door, and he nearly jumped his coffee table to see if it was anyone worth answering for. He spied Jenny through the peephole, her lower lip tucked under her upper snugly. She closed her eyes and leaned against his door. He opened it and she toppled in, right against his chest.

"We have a few minutes. Come sit down." He pulled her along the hall and into the living room where he lowered her into the couch and watched her spread over it, her eyes still closed.

"It was _bad._ I had no idea how bad." She sighed and reached up, pulling her hair. "We're fighting like dogs. He can't stop yelling how he can't help how he feels, and I can't make him change his mind, and he doesn't mind much waiting longer, but he's yelling it all, and I can tell he's scared and backed into a corner, and I think Jake could tell too, because he took the beer money jar and went into town. He wasn't back before I left. I sat in the park for a while, and Andy found me, and he yelled at me in the park because I gave Brock the time of day when all I did was tease him. It's like everyone turned against me! Except Jake." She laughed bitterly. "But he's on their side. He'd rather have someone under his thumb dating me."

"Boy, if I had known what an obstacle course it would be to date you..." He paused, picking his words.

"You wouldn't have bothered?" She croaked, her eyes peering out behind fingers unhappily.

"I would have limbered up first. Now I'm just barging through it. And I guarantee I've made mistakes." He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. "But things are falling into place. How did it end?"

"He'll wait a lonely lifetime; if I want him to, he will." She replied drearily. "Andy's just mad."

"Did you bring a change of clothes?" He looked at her tote, the bottle of red wine poking out of the top.

"Yeah."

"Change into something comfortable. I'll--" The timer on his oven went off and he smiled. "I'll put dinner on the table. Alex and I made cookies for dessert."

She smiled and sized him up, looking for evidence. "Did she trick you into an apron or bakery whites?"

"Apron and oven mitts. You'll probably see the photo."

"I hope so!" She slowly sat up and rubbed her eyes. "Brock had to be some hero for love. I always thought love...well, it's not one-way, you know? Someone has to feel the same way for it to be love. Otherwise it's infatuation, or obsession, or fixation..."

Bobby nodded a little. "I suppose so. But ideas are changing. Marriage is becoming an expression of love and not the commitment it should be." He blinked, hearing himself as though a spectator for a moment. "The very reason the dictionary has the single worst definitions of 'love' ever conceived."

"You know what else I brought?" She dug through her bag, placing her pajama pants and matching tank top on the coffee table with the bottle of wine. "Board games. You'd probably beg for mercy with Scrabble, so why not...Perquackey?"

"Wait, you think you'd kick _my_ ass at Scrabble?"

"If you try to defend yourself," she smiled haughtily, "you'll be an old fart with too much time on his hands. How do you fix it?"

"I show you." He walked into the kitchen and pulled their dinners from the oven. "After this, I'm kicking your ass."

"Yes, sir, may I have another?" She jumped onto his back, clinging to him while he ignored her, groping for something with which to dish up their plates. "Don't ignore me or your dinner will get cold."

"That'd be a cruel and dirty trick, Jenny." He wafted the smell of her dinner to her. "Mushrooms and garlic potatoes with mushroom sauce."

"My dinner won't be cold, sir." She slid down and wormed between him and the oven, her stomach to his stomach. "Put it here." She put his hand on her belly. "For safe-keeping."

"What will happen when you go home tomorrow?" He put his hands on her waist, playing with the top of her jeans and touching her bare stomach. "Will he be okay?"

"Brock? He's...he'll be fine. I...he just yelled and it was weird, but he was backed into a corner. I..."

"You're not worried?"

"A little. I love him like a brother, but he's looking for every excuse to change my mind. I don't know what kind of person it makes me to not want to...change. I liked the way it was. I like loving you." She rested her cheek on his chest. "My mother wants to see you. Meet you."

"Like I don't have enough on my plate." He sighed.

"Sorry something important got added to the list." She pouted and pushed his chest away from her cheek. "It's only my mother. The mother of the girl you're sleeping with, if you need clarification."

He felt himself blushing. It seemed his foot was not only in his mouth, but up his ass. He squirmed and buried his fingers in her hair. "Sit down. I dish us up and we'll talk."

"How did you resolve your issues with Alex?" She sat heavily, ignoring his eye contact. "Was she an easy sell?"

"She just...she's had a rough few weeks, since around December thirteenth, and when she wanted to talk to me, I was always busy and she didn't think it'd be polite of her to interrupt. She's truly happy for us, I think. Didn't want to walk into the happiness she wanted me to have, anyway." He licked his finger after slopping her pasta and potatoes onto her plate. "So, she talked at me for a while, I listened back, and tomorrow I'm going with her to see her sister and help her fix things up. Hopefully we'll be able to patch things and she'll relax a little."

"She doesn't think much of me, does she?" Jenny poured herself some wine, then adding some to Bobby's glass. "She seems to doubt my intellect a little. I don't quite get it."

"Neither does she." Bobby put her plate in front of her and smiled a little. "But she'll have a reason when I beat your ass at Scrabble."

She smiled a little, and he cocked his eyebrow, expecting her to say something to prick him in the underbelly after his ego-boosting remark. "You know what Jake said, and it's an interesting little fact? He assumed you were born sometime in August or September, for astrological reasons beyond me," she traced lines on her palm as if to show her brother was a psychic, "and added that would make you seventeen when I was born. Driving yourself into school, totally concerned with homework and girls, and I'm wriggling my way into the world, my face plaented in Jake's ass because we refused to come out one at a time."

"That's an interesting way of putting it." He smiled and took his seat across from her, reaching for his glass of wine. "And I am an August birth."

"Figured." She smirked a little and seized his left hand. "Leos are notoriously smart, snarky, and they have turbulent love lives, and not just with boyfriends or girlfriends." She traced a horizontal line on his palm very gently with the tip of her index finger. "Chains and braids on this line mean strife in the home, disasterous parenting, and a divorce of sorts."

"Does it mean I'll always suffer that kind of heartache?" He asked, unable to keep a hint of teasing out of his skeptical voice. "And how did you know I was a Leo? I could have been born early August and been--"

"Nope. You couldn't have. Not with your personality, buster." She tapped the side of his hand where a handful of small, short lines grazed the space between the deep groove a line on his palm left when it dropped off his hand, and where a line was formed where his pinky finger rotated on its joint. There were six in all.

"These represent serious relationships. Friends, lovers, mothers, fathers, godfathers, whatever. These are the ones that matter. They started deep in your childhood, but faded. This last one, it's deep. There's no way to tell when or why, but this one is the one that lasts. If you can name five friends, then this is the last stop." She looked at his palm again. "And there's no more braiding. You already made it. No more worries."

"What about you?" He moved his hand around to take her palm and observe. "Does it have any of the same?"

"Early childhood unrest, faded lines." She wriggled her fingers and stretched her palm in his hand. "The only difference is I don't have a Fate Line. I never knew what I wanted to do with my life, is what that means. It's not true, quite. I knew what I wanted to do, but the Fate Line is notorious for being read as a career line. If that's the case, it's true. I knew I wanted to play music. Didn't matter if for money or fun."

"What about that?"

"Curves into my Mount of Luna. Means I can be aloof and distant sometimes." She looked up at Bobby and smiled, taking her hand back. "But I think we can all be a little distant. Smarter we are, the stranger we become."

"Amen." He snorted.

"Bless you, my son." She started eating.


	16. Displacement

_Author's Note:_ Wow, a hiatus, huh? Anyway...

* * *

Alex was shocked the ploy had worked. Her sister and husband knew better than to believe Bobby's "Bumbling Cop" Act. He had played it, and demolished it, a hundred times. The goofy smile, the laughter in the most inappropriate of silences, and the sudden frown and the added, husky shout. The stretching, pinching sensation in Alex's chest had only gone away when Nathan had run out of his room to give Alex a big hug and show her the puzzle he'd been working on. Tears, apologies, and a happy silence later, Bobby let himself out and sat in Alex's SUV for ten minutes while she made lengthy goodbyes.

As she started the car, she remembered how she had believed, with all her heart, Bobby would only be good for his size and obstinance.

"Thanks, Bobby."

He removed his hand from over his mouth and smiled. "Don't mention it."

"Where are we going for dinner?" She continued somewhat gruffly, looking at him accusingly. "Someplace relatively good, please. I'm not in a beer and pizza mood."

"No, you're always in a beer and pizza mood." His irritating singsong voice riled Alex up from her tranquil visit to her sister's. "What boy are you bringing that likes fine food?"

"His name is John and he's a doctor." She gave him a meaningful look. "An unmarried doctor."

"There you go! He's perfect. I totally approve, without question."

"How noble of you. How's she getting along with her bevy of suitors, by the way?"

"Speaking of--"

"_No,_ no more 'speaking of's' or 'hey, did you hear who Madonna is screwing now's.' Answer the question."

"She got into a shouting match and didn't quite expect it to be so vocal. A little upset, but mostly fine." He shifted. "No interest in either of her bevy boys."

"See? You won. Idiot."

He cleared his throat. "Oaf, th-thank you."

Alex gave him a look. "You _ooze_ confidence, why trick yourself? She _loves_ you."

"It's enough, okay? I just know she happens to _love_ a lot of other men, and it's _unsettling._"

"_Fine._"

Bobby smiled. "Good."

Alex's phone rang and she flipped it open, turning her head both ways before taking a corner a little too quickly. "Eames. Captain? No, he's with me. What do you mean? Ohh, well, that makes sense. No, I'll give him hell, and we can be there in ten. She's on her way? Sounds good." She hung up. "Deakins called your apartment and got Jenny."

"Ohh, damnit!"

"Well, he was glad he grabbed her, because the jury's in and their reading the verdict in twenty. Waiting for the press." She looked at him. "We're invited."

"Jenny answered my land line or my cell phone?" His eyebrows knit up unhappily. "Did he say?"

"Has Deakins _ever_ called your land line, Goren?"

He closed his eyes again. "Ohh, _damnit!_"

"He knows, too."

"Knows what?"

"He was there for your testimony. He knows you're sleeping with her."

"That's not really the point, but sure. I mean that the verdict's not in and she's lounging around my apartment answering my phones..."

"Face it, Goren. You let a woman move in and _she _takes over. Law of sexification."

He gave her a sour look. "She hasn't moved in with me."

Alex looked over at him with a mirrored expression, her eyes locked on his while she effortlessly made a left hand turn toward the courthouse. "You wouldn't like to have a twenty-eight-year-old personal cook, entertainer, psychology enthusiast, and sex slave there for you whenever you needed her?"

He gave her a serious look, no trace of sourness remained. He sighed gently and looked into his big palms. "I think I'd be too selfish. It's about when she needs me too, and I'm not one to commit to that--"

"Whenever your mother calls, you leave the next day. You're saying you couldn't be there for a woman who loves you?" Alex decided to bait him, almost in pay-back for the baiting he'd done to deserve the slap on his cheek. "It's no wonder you're paranoid that Brock guy might steal her. You're not willing to commit!"

"That's not fair and you know it." He murmured, but Alex sensed a little sheepishness in his voice. "I'm just...dedicated to my job, and she's got a much more lenient schedule now that she owns the bar. If I called her now, or at work, or from Carmel Ridge, and she'd be there in an hour or less."

"Right," Alex nodded, executing a right hand lane change with amazing efficiency. "Because she loves you and she likes to see you happy. Don't you like to see her happy?"

"I love it." He tapped his fingers urgently against his knees. "She said she'd be there in ten minutes?"

"Should be. She does have to catch a cab." Alex reached over and stopped his fingers. "And maybe she'll be the person to tell you she needs to be with you all the time. Because you won't tell her, will you?"

"Too much time with anyone is bad."

"Oh...is she pregnant?"

"What? No!"

"Okay, sorry!"

"Christ, Alex..." He folded his arms and curled his legs a little, turning partly on his side so he wasn't looking at her. "Butt out, would you?"

"I'm keeping your best interests at heart, I swear!"

"You push me into Jenny, you yell at me for kissing her at the bar, you tease us until you're sure we're dating steady, then you get bitchy because you don't know her well enough and you're jealous. You want her to move in and I want to keep my apartment from mysteriously catching fire." He curled tighter.

She slapped his arm hard. "For the _last_ time, I was not jealous of her for that reason! You're a sick man, Robert Goren. Don't make me pull this car over."

He sighed theatrically and put his left hand over his mouth again. "Fine."

"Thank you." She rolled her shoulders, rolling her lips inward. "At least you're diplomatic about it with the press coverage. I've been checking the phone calls now and then. I don't have your security code, but I know which number to call to find out how many messages you have. Seems like every newspaper in the city's been waiting for your comment on this whole thing."

"About that...being diplomatic thing." He cleared his throat and twiddled his thumbs carefully. "I'm going to...put salt in Jensen's wounds if the verdict's guilty. If it's not-guilty, I'll probably do the same."

"How so?"

He remained silent.

"Goren! How so?"

"Just watch and figure it out." He pointed to an empty parking space about a block from the courthouse. "Let's walk in. Is the captain waiting for us?"

"Yep."

"Good, c'mon."

The walk was relatively quiet after Bobby pumped a few dimes into the parking meter. His turtleneck sweater, feeling a little warm and itchy at the moment, distracted him enough to keep his hands busy while they walked. He didn't play with the buttons or zips on his coat, and he didn't fiddle with Alex's coat, which was covered in lint. It was snowing and even from half a block away he could see the press swarming around a cab. He figured Jenny was inside. She knew the plan, at least, he hoped she did.

Pulling on his hat, he hunched his shoulders a little and allowed Alex to lead him up the court steps, allowing his eyes only to see where his foot was going to land next. At some point Alex reached behind and took his arm, pulling him along. The flashes were innumerable, and Bobby couldn't help but tuck his chin into the collar of his coat against the cold and the light. The doors closed, and the press opened them, following. The courtroom was packed, but Deakins had saved them a spot. Jenny, crammed into the last of the available viewing area beside a corrections officer with two children, the Whittaker children, medicated and gaunt, had lips painted up for margarita Friday at a Las Vegas casino. She turned when Deakins moved over and deadpanned, rolling her lips inward to spread the lipstick evenly.

Bobby clasped his hands and removed his coat and hat, sitting quietly.

"The jury will find. Will the foreman please rise? Defendant, please rise."

Lana Whittaker, thin and dressed in a faded women's business skirt and blazer, clasped bony fingers together, her head bowed.

"She knows." Bobby whispered.

Deakins leaned up, peering over the heads of the others standing in front of him, and stuck his tongue out a little, chewing on it with a slight frown. "Let's hope so."

Bobby glanced up and met Jensen's eyes. The attorney glanced over to Jenny, back to Bobby, and smirked, turning toward the judge again.

"The jury finds, on all counts rendered, the defendant, Lana Whittaker, guilty." The foreman, a young black woman with tired eyes and broad shoulders, looked out of the paper she'd been gazing into while reciting the verdict, and flinched visibly when the whispers broke out. Bobby hardly heard the judge set the sentencing date and dismiss the jury while the bailiff rushed forward to put Mrs. Whittaker in handcuffs.

"See? I told you they'd come to their senses." Alex released a solid breath and smiled up at Bobby. "Even if you think with your--"

Jenny popped up and Bobby turned, blocking out Alex's comment with closed eyes. When Jenny's arms linked around his neck, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and leaned down, accepting a kiss with a proud grin hiding just beneath the surface. It was the first time since an innocent and ignored kiss in the Back Door that Bobby had indulged in a public display of affection. In a way, it was nice.

"Here he is, on the nightly news." Alex sighed. "With his tongue down the girl's throat."

Bobby popped away with bright red smeared on his lips and glared at Alex. "Don't insult my intelligence. If you have something to say, say it. Tell her how you have a sneaking suspicion she's dumb. Go on, _provoke_ her."

Alex started to roll her eyes. "Just--"

Jenny looked from Alex to Deakins, trying to decide which was the worse enemy, and then looked at her feet, frowning. "I'll admit nothing. Plead the fifth."

"You don't have to prove yourself, that's for sure." Bobby turned to lead her away.

"No, I really don't." Jenny replied, allowing him to pull her along a little. "But I will say that cartwheels and knowledge of palmistry do brand a person on the lower end of the evolutionary ladder."

"Jenny--" Bobby wanted to stop her. He had a feeling, just a gut instinct, she could turn into quite the bitch when truly provoked, and Alex's jealousy had already turned Jenny into some hippie slag with an idiocy so deep it drowned in itself.

"I can pick a mean fight. You don't want to start." Jenny smiled, giving her a comical, clown-painted look. "You call them as you see them, Detective, and in the world of convicts and criminals, that'll fly. In the real world, we don't all have to impress the pretty lady in the blouse and sweater."

"Now hold on--" Alex stood up to her full height, just a half an inch shorter than Jenny.

"Well, what do you see?"

"A woman looking out of her league because he makes her feel important. You only reciporocate because it's convenient."

Jenny laughed. "I'll give you one there, I am way out of my league." She dragged the back of her hand across her mouth, removing most of the lipstick. "But it's not convenient to be in a relationship. If it is, you're not doing it right."

"I don't believe the lawyer's shit about you being with Bobby to imprison Lana Whittaker. A jury just found her guilty." Alex smiled back. "In fact, you don't have a motive. You must really believe you have something to give him."

Deakins took Bobby's wrist when he reached to pull Jenny away. "Don't. They need to duke it out."

"But--"

"There's no rule your girlfriend has to like your partner, or vice versa."

"But this can't happen every time they meet--"

Jenny was tapping her cheek, her head still tilted a little. "So, you think I don't have anything to offer him? Do I really have to fight to prove myself to you?"

"No, you don't have to prove anything to anyone. I don't have to prove my theory, either." Alex rolled her lips inward. "Look, I'd love to see something prove me wrong, but I don't have to see anything."

"You can't just trust him?"

"Trust him? Sure, I trust him. He's a brilliant man, no hiding it. But every man has one weakness, and it doesn't take a genius to find a belt buckle."

"Apparently it's a feat some of us can't quite accomplish."

Alex wrinkled her nose; she knew she could cut Jenny off at the knees, but not without damaging Bobby and his reputation at the same time, and despite her certainty that Jenny was using her partner for her own needs, she didn't want to hurt him.

"Uncalled for, I know." Jenny took Alex's wrist. "Come with me."

"What?"

"I'll treat you to lunch. _Please._ You're important to Bobby. I can be a trifle immature, but what can I say?" She smiled brilliantly. "My childhood was stolen from me. I went to pre-school in England. My sense of humor had only just come back by high school. I'm making up for lost time."

Alex frowned, sending Bobby a perplexed look, and then was jerked out the doors among camera flashes and shouts.

* * *

Jenny had bummed a cigarette off a man lighting up just outside the courthouse, and was stomping it out before she held the door open for Alex. Clearly not happy about the situation, Alex slid inside and picked a booth in the greasy diner. Jenny stepped around a grisly pile of dropped food one of the waitresses had been cleaning up over the past hour, distracted by customers off and on all morning.

They sat and Jenny clasped her hands. "No boys. Be as derogotive, be as catty, be as jealous as you like. Or we can be civilized and talk about this."

"Okay, let's give it a shot." Alex lifted her eyebrows a little and set her chin in her hand. "I'll start. He needed to open up, and he needed to have a life outside work. Now and then he scares me. He gets in the heads of our perps too much and he can't get out. He needs someone to reel him in. I'm there, but I can't be there when he's home, reading the files, putting his brain on the line, and throwing away his chance at happiness for his job and his mother. He'd give his life for me, for you, for just about anyone deserving, in a heartbeat. No one should be allowed to take advantage of him, especially when he would do it without them even asking. So I teased him about you. I thought he'd have a date and move on."

"But I persisted?"

Alex wrung her hands a little. "Sort of. I watched Cora for you two when he first took you out. I was happy for him, I really was. And then he...kissed you, ahd borrowed my car, and he saw something in you. I still don't get it."

Jenny gnawed on her tongue.

"At first I figured I didn't need to figure him out. I've never fully understood his brain anyway. Then he started showing up to work just a couple minutes before me. That stopped shortly after I noticed it." She accepted a coffee the waitress dropped off and stirred in sugar. "I ignored it and was happy for him again. For both of you. You're a very talented woman. You're like Bobby like that." She sipped her coffee. "Totally focused on what you do, and you do it well. Music is your thing. It's all I know you for."

"Understandable." Jenny put cream and sugar in her coffee.

"But my sister." She swallowed. "She got into...we got into a spat and she decided to take up her husband's offer to move to Augusta for his job. They don't know how permanent the move is. My nephew...I was his surrogate when his mother and father couldn't do it on their own."

"You came home with empty arms, and now she's taking him away?"

"Well, she's taking him with her, of course, but when we were still fighting, I didn't have anyone. My girl friends all agreed with me, and any male acquaintances had this idea they could beat my nephew back into my arms. I didn't want to _take_ him. I just wanted to say goodbye and know I could call him whenever I wanted."

"Understandable." Jenny replied, prompting her to speak again.

"Bobby had no time for me. If he wasn't at work, he was with you. I just needed to talk. I just needed someone to say we needed to reconcile, because that's what fixed it. I didn't need a hug from my nephew, I needed to make up with my sister."

Jenny sipped her coffee and looked into her cup, acting pensive. "It's true in that it is hard to find time for other people when you're falling in love. There's no excuse in ignoring your friends, though."

"He's never been in love before. Not like this, as far as I can tell. He's had his girlfriends, and those he'd give anything to impress, but he didn't have to read a book or learn some odd skill just to win you over. Just like you didn't have to do anything to win him. You have something on him. I have no clue what, but he likes it."

"Okay." Jenny nodded, smiling.

"Bobby is a genius. His thought patterns are so different, it makes his brilliance all that more obvious. His eccentricities make him better. I can't place you. Your quirks trick me. I can't tell if you act like you do because it's just how you are, or if it's because you don't know better. I know..." She swallowed. "I know Bobby wouldn't love you if you were an idiot."

"Makes it all the more infuriating you think I am, doesn't it?" Jenny nodded, shrugging. "Maybe I don't have conventional wisdom. I'm not a science and math person, not like Bobby. I love psychology, but that's emotional as much as it is scientifically physical. A tumor does the same damage an abusive father does in some cases. I did complete high school and college though, and not with poor grades. I took a college-level biology class, and I took two years college math before I declared my major. Music majors have to then take another three years' worth of math classes and theory classes." Jenny sighed. "I'll tell you something you may already know."

"Okay, shoot." Alex felt comfortable again. Her initial assessment of Jenny, for being brave and halting Alex's idea of doing a background check by telling her upfront there was nothing to be worried about.

"Musicans have an inate ability to zone in and out. When we're in, we're in. If you talk to me while I'm learning a song, your head will become separated from your body. When I'm performing, sometimes I literally forget where I am. I just know I'm playing and there's a hot crowd cheering me on. When we're out, we're _way_ out. I don't think more than three words in a row that make sense. I feel flustered and lost a lot, but I don't have to think about music to focus. I can turn it on and off, it's just something musicians develop like a skill. To focus to the point of obsession, and then to let go and not remember what your own name is."

"Okay, so when I've seen you, I've seen you when you're relaxing after a period of obsession." Alex shrugged. "What part of you does he get?"

"Both. I can read people. Our bodies are victims to the subconcious. You're starting to relax now. Mixture of coffee and the fact I'm stringing sentences together without giggling and trying to climb on something." She blinked, sighing into her hands. "I, uh...put that focus into him. I want to know as much of him as I can. Whatever he gives me."

"You're lucky, then."

"I am, and I know it. You're lucky to work with him and see him when his mind is turned on."

"I am, and I know it, too."

"So, we agree."

"I think we do." Alex sighed and frowned.

"The injustice is partly on my shoulders, Alex. I'm sure the last thing he wanted to do was ignore you."

"Believe me, I know. There's nothing like a woman scorned." She made a motion like wringing a neck. "And I'm not one to be a catty bitch to something that big. He just has to sit down at the right angle and I'm flat out."

Jenny laughed and shook her head.

Alex cleared her throat again, feeling a mixture of emotions. It appeared she had wanted to displace her disbelief Bobby Goren could actually miss something with his incredibly perceptive mind with a blame of Jenny and an insult of her character.

"You think they're worried sick about us yet?" Jenny asked, her smile devilish.

"Depends. It too early to pick up a fifth of whisky? We could dump part of it and stumble our way back to my SUV." Alex walked her fingers across the diner table.

Jenny laughed again. "And why did we get drunk?"

"Because you'd be my best friend if you and I shared a margarita. That's a little bit of a project, though. We'd have to buy glasses, salt, those tiny umbrellas--"

"No!" Jenny clapped a hand to her forehead. "To the Hardware Store!"

"What?" Alex lifted her eyebrows. "Jenny, wait!"

Jenny through a handful of bills on the table, more than enough for bill and tip, and pulled Alex into the street. She flagged a cab and pulled Alex in after her. It was her youth showing, or her musician's drive. Alex couldn't tell, but she took control of her wrist again and rubbed it to demonstrate her dislike. Jenny bounded out of the car in front of the Back Door, which was currently without a sign and without a glowing, welcoming, "Open and Hammered" sign.

"Wait, please!" Jenny shouted to the cabby. Alex, not wanting to be left out of the loop, jumped out of the car and followed her to the door. She unlocked the door and went inside, her smile almost manic. There was a tinge of red lipstick left on her face, and Alex couldn't help but smile. Jenny hopped over the bar-top and landed in front of a cooler. She bent and pulled out several liquors and two margarita glasses.

"Make mine extra tall, barkeep." Alex knocked on the wood bar-top.

"Your wish is my command, copper." Jenny saluted Alex and mixed up two margaritas in her shaker. She blended, tossed in garnish, and unfolded a couple tiny umbrellas. Salted the rims, put the drinks in, poked in the tiny umbrella and closed up everything. They locked up and got back into the cab.

"Courthouse." Alex laughed, sipping her drink. "What hour is it?"

"Five o' clock somewhere."

The women laughed and Alex leaned forward, pointing over the top of the front seat. "Ooh, I hear it! Turn this up!"

The cabby turned up the radio and "Margaritaville" blared. Jimmy Buffet sounded laid back, and Alex went into hysterics, leading Jenny's giggle to reform into a full-fledged laugh.

Press had almost completely abandoned the courthouse, but a few stragglers persisted. Alex suddenly remembered her place. She was with a margarita. It was hardly lunchtime if it was lunchtime at all. Jenny slurped and Alex giggled on reflex, frowning heavily afterward.

"Okay, now...drunk faces or just cool as a cucumber?"

"I'm considering nixing the whole idea and keeping my job, actually."

"Either way, chickie." Jenny paid the cabby and climbed out of the car. She took another draw and looked into the car. Alex took a deep breath and saw two figures sitting on the front steps sit up. One had clenched his hands at his sides. Goren. She took a big gulp of her margarita and climbed out the other side, whooping loudly. She could play the drunk hooker any day. It was her favorite role.

The cab moved away and Jenny linked arms with Alex. The friendship was momentary, but without animosity.

Bobby watched from a distance, his captain at his side. He wanted to cover the man's eyes and weep. It was a horrific and beautiful sight all in one, and he wanted to forget it as much as get a photograph.

"She got her drunk."

"No, they...it's been twenty minutes, maybe half an hour. That's not enough time--"

"She owns a bar, Bobby. You have no idea what came before those margaritas."

"Cofee!"

"They only headed toward the coffee shop."

"Captain!"

"I'm only saying!"

Bobby stood up and moved to the bottom of the stairs.

"Of Auld Lang Syne? Heard of it? Okay, another round." Jenny warbled.

Deakins leaned over Bobby's shoulder from a couple steps up. "Don't you love female bonding?"


End file.
